


L'ombre de ton ombre

by windfallswest



Series: Or I Could Go to Australia [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Fix-It, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Obscurus (Harry Potter), Recovery, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn, living out of a suitcase, or I could go to Australia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-16 05:20:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 43,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10564437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windfallswest/pseuds/windfallswest
Summary: Allow me to becomeThe shadow of your shadow,The shadow of your hand,The shadow of your dogOnly do not leave—Ne me quitte pasOr, Fuck it: I'm gonna go to Australia. And you're coming with me.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Graves and Credence run away together. Warnings for spoilers and the various triggers you'd expect from this paring.

Grindelwald kept him in the dark. 

The man had never told Graves that he was Grindelwald. He only ever showed himself to Graves wearing Graves' face, cleanly shaved, immaculate, not a hair or a stitch out of place. Even his accent was pitch-perfect. 

_At least he's keeping up the standards_ , Graves thought grimly. Graves' own appearance had no doubt suffered considerably. He could feel his hair brushing the crumpled collar of his sweat-stained shirt despite the hanks Grindelwald kept snipping off. 

Graves had pieced Grindelwald's identity together for himself. He was no mean auror, after all; and he'd spent months hunting the man. The skill, the intellect, the timeline—he must have been watching Graves. All this time? The thought made Graves grind his teeth in professional ire. 

Graves had been targeted, oh yes. But the potential power-base Grindelwald could usurp as Director of Magical Security and Head of Magical Law Enforcement barely balanced out the risks of spending eighteen hours a day in MACUSA's bowels, as well as its complex interplay of politics, both internal and external, surrounded by highly trained and suspicious wizards who were deeply familiar with Graves' training and professional habits. He'd once spent seventy-nine hours stuck in a magical blind with Seraphina Picquery during a stakeout that got out of hand. Graves didn't care how good you were: bluffing that kind of familiarity meant depending on luck.

No, Graves had been chosen for another reason, and he was grimly certain he knew what it was. Out of the dozen cases on his desk since he'd come back and the hundreds that crossed it from the aurors under his command, there was one that had made his teeth itch even before he was stunned from behind inside the substantial wards of his own apartment. Only earlier that week, Graves had taken it off Tina Goldstein. Grindelwald must have been waiting for that. He might even have orchestrated it. 

Some No-Majs became unalterably convinced that magic existed, whether they'd ever had any cause for their beliefs or not. Strict segregation made no difference, unfortunately. And it had had to be the Barebones. That family always seemed to know too much for its own good. _Damn Dorcus Twelvetrees._

And there were a few too many magical disturbances around the Second Salemers for Graves' comfort. Dark things, some kind of illegal creature or wizarding renegade. _Something to interest a wizarding renegade, anyway._ Goldstein had become convinced they were somehow connected, which had been solid work. She had approached the Barebone boy during the course of her investigation and gotten side-tracked. 

Graves had stopped in on the boy himself after the event. He couldn't fault Goldstein's outrage, but her loss of control was unacceptable. The Barebone woman's talk made him uneasy for more reasons than one. Graves hadn't yet confided his suspicions about the escalating incidents to anyone else, more hunch than anything, when he'd been taken out of the picture. They might be right and they might not. But the source was surely both dark and powerful, to draw Grindelwald out of hiding. 

There was no telling time in the smothering, sound-absorbing darkness. Grindelwald kept him like this, immobilised and deprived of sensation, stewing in his own rankness, to break him. He had forced himself into Graves' mind that first day, or more likely in the small hours of the morning. He'd cannily taken Graves on a Friday, but if he'd wanted to keep Graves' schedule, he'd only had until ten on Saturday to finish and present himself as Graves at MACUSA. 

Graves hated him like he'd never hated anything in his life. Only slightly more than he hated himself, the weakness that had betrayed everything he was loyal to, all the witches and wizards under his command, the entire magical community that he served. Each breath he took that didn't bring rescue meant that Piquery hadn't figured it out and all of MACUSA was still at Grindelwald's mercy. He could almost wish Grindelwald had taken Goldstein instead, because _Graves_ damn well wouldn't have missed it. 

He planned his escape a hundred times over. When Grindelwald came for him, to fight his way back into Graves' mind, he resisted. He threw himself at Grindelwald's mind with the desperate strength of his loathing and hatred and was crushed, plunged into the worst memories thirty years as a auror could supply, immersed in terror, horror, loss, grief, and shame until he drowned in it and broke again. 

Even focussing all his energy on keeping Grindelwald out gave no consistent result. A mind was a wizard's greatest weapon. Magic without ordered thought behind it tended to think for itself. There was nothing more dangerous than wild magic. 

That had to be Grindelwald's mistake. He should have spelled Graves to sleep. This endless torture was hubris. Graves still had his mind. He would not fall apart. He would not surrender. 

But Grindelwald was stronger. The first time Graves held him off, Grindelwald snuck in later through his dreams. After that, it became harder to tell the difference between sleeping and waking. Grindelwald had a nasty instinct for weakness. Time after time, he ripped apart Graves' defences and pried out his nascent plans, perusing his nightmares like a periodical and rifling through his memory like a filing cabinet. 

Graves had no way of marking time except by his own breathing and heartbeat. Grindelwald's visits were separated by black eternities, feeding him only infrequently, keeping him weak. So he had no way of knowing how long he had been captive when the floor shook under him. 

Instinctively, he threw his arms out to steady himself. They moved. For a shocked moment, Graves thought he would burst into tears. _No. Don't waste this opportunity._

Graves tried to scramble to his feet, but his knees gave out. He was so weak. How long had it been since he stood free of an Imperious curse? Weeks? Months? 

He tried again. On the third attempt, he made it upright. Graves stumbled around, feeling in front of himself for a wall. He nearly fell banging into it. The space wasn't large. Where was the door? He heard a door when Grindelwald came and went, but he'd gotten turned around. _Blast._

Graves tried to disapparate, without success. Those wards didn't seem to have broken with the petrification spell. 

Something hit Graves in the face. He flinched away, falling. _Salem hang it._ Laboriously, Graves climbed back to his feet and groped in the dark like a blind man. Soft, dangling—that had been a cord. _Trap door or light-switch._ He'd take either. 

_There._ Graves' fingers clutched around it convulsively and met resistance. Trap door, then. He held his other hand protectively over his head and yanked harder, praying he wouldn't break the thread from which were hanging all his hopes. 

_It opens up, you idiot._ Graves walked his fingers up the cord; they just brushed the wooden surface overhead. A broken handle to pull the trap door shut. _Thank god it's a low ceiling._

Graves widened his stance and gathered himself. 

He hit the trap door with both fists, and his ass hit the floor again. The trap door shook and gave but didn't open. Spelled shut? 

Graves hesitated. Magic without a wand was possible. Children did it all the time. Not consciously, for the most part; but wizarding children were expected to demonstrate magic long before they received their first wands. 

Wands helped; wands were great. The difference between magic with and without a wand was so drastic that most wizards never trained in doing even rudimentary spells without them. Aurors got drilled in the basics, in case they ever found themselves in the situation Graves was in now. Few of them had even as much of a knack for it as he did—although he'd had his reasons for pushing himself to learn more—and locking spells could get fiendishly complex. 

_Freedom,_ he reminded himself. _Grindelwald._ With that burning in his heart, Graves raised his hand like he would his wand and reached for his magic, to shape and send it. _Please work, please work, please._

It was slow and jerky in coming, but by Salem it came, stuttering out of Graves. There was a tiny, metallic _click_. It was the most beautiful sound Graves had ever heard. A wave of exhaustion washed over him, and his head swam. 

Graves staggered upright one last time, swaying on his bare feet. It took nearly everything he had to leap up again to punch open the trap door. He squinted in the sudden wash of light. 

_One more._ Graves jumped, grabbing onto the edges of the frame and hauling himself up. A shout of effort tore hoarsely from his disused throat as his muscles trembled. The world shook again, and he pitched forward over the side of a steamer trunk. Ungracefully, he overbalanced himself and toppled out entirely, onto the floor of his bedroom. 

_My own apartment._ Graves had suspected; Grindelwald had to be keeping him close. Graves had lived here for eight years, and a sudden move might have drawn attention. 

It was night. Even the dim glow from the streetlights outside was almost too bright for Graves' eyes. Hurriedly, he scrambled into his socks, shoes, second-best coat. His reflexion, glimpsed in the mirror, was every bit as bad as he'd feared. Unshorn and unshaven—Salem, that was at least a month's growth of beard—he wished he had time, but he didn't dare. Anyway, his hand was shaking worse than the ground. 

_Good as it's going to get._ Graves looked away from the sunken cheeks, the burning eyes, and strode out through first one door, then another. He ignored the dampness on his cheeks. 

Graves held onto the handrail descending the staircase. On his way out the door, he'd grabbed a sword-cane from the stand, more for the cane than the sword. Pride be damned, he had to get to MACUSA, had to alert Piquery— 

Graves was glad of the cane as the street lurched again. People were running and screaming; masonry was falling off of buildings. Automatically, he looked around for the source of the damage, even as his stomach sank. _I'm too late._

Darkness exploded overhead. _No. There's no way—_

He had no wand, no clear notion what was going on. It didn't matter. Graves changed course towards the point where the black cloud contracted, hobbling faster, then breaking into a debilitated run. 

Graves was winded by the time he reached the scene. _You really do take apparition for granted._ He was about ready to draw the sword as he elbowed his way through the crowd, past the No-Maj photographers and—damnation, was that Henry Shaw? 

"Let me through!" Graves barked. 

"Yes, sir!" Jones opened the barrier, then did a double-take; but Graves was already through. "Sir?" 

"I'll explain later. Was that what I think it was?" 

"An Obscurus, sir. I knew they were dangerous, but..." Uncertainty was creeping into Jones' eyes, but she was too well-trained to leave her post without orders. 

Graves kept his momentum going. If he stopped, he wasn't sure he'd be able to start up again. _I guess it's a good thing it all looks downhill from here._

The stairs down to the subway station did their best to buck him off not ten steps from the bottom. Seeing the size of the thing and its aftermath, Graves was prepared for the force. What he wasn't prepared for was the wail, a heart-rending anguish that reverberated through his soul and seemed to pitch him back into the furious black helplessness he'd just escaped. 

Grimly, Graves forced himself to go down the rest of the way. The station was wrecked; there was a gaping hole in the roof now, open to the night above. The Obscurus was an inky cloud over the tracks. There were three other figures with it—Tina Goldstein plus two men lying between her and the Obscurus on the tracks. Graves' lip curled back as he recognised Grindelwald, still masquerading as himself, as one of them. 

"Credence, no!" 

Graves was stunned. _Credence?_ Not the Barebone boy. Surely he couldn't have missed—they _both_ couldn't have missed _this_. "That's Credence Barebone? But he's over twenty!" 

Goldstein spun around at the sound of his voice and stared at him, then down at Grindelwald, pinned by the Obscurus. 

"Who—who are you?" the Obscurus demanded in a half-familiar voice, distorted but still recognisable. 

Graves pushed himself onward. "I am Percival Graves." 

"How—" 

"But—" 

"Graves—" 

Everybody but Grindelwald tried to speak at once. 

"Help us calm him down!" Goldstein said. 

Questions later, yes. Graves had no wand, no spells, no strength left. All he had to protect his city and bring this boy out of the dark was the mind Grindelwald had defeated. 

"I told you I would try and help you once, Credence. Do you remember?" What in Salem's name was he doing? Graves was no Androcles, and this was one hell of a lion. 

"You said—he said—" 

"He stopped me from helping you. I don't know what happened," although he could make a guess, "but I should have been there. It was my job to stop it. I'm sorry." 

"He's lying!" Grindelwald snarled, edging away from Credence. "He's a madman. I want you to be free." 

Graves shouted over him. "You think you're the only one he's sunk into the dark? He stole my face, he stole my life! He hurts people, Credence. It's what he does. But I promise; I promise I'll never let him hurt you or anyone again. They can't hurt you now. It's going to be okay. I'm going to keep you safe now." Graves' mind wasn't enough; he was wringing out his heart, too. 

Graves had made his way out to the edge of the platform. The dark cloud that was Credence had turned towards him, coalescing. Graves couldn't believe it; it was impossible; it was a miracle. _By all the fires of Salem, do I need a miracle about now._

Graves dropped his sword-cane, his last means of defence, and held out his arms, only half knowing what he was doing. 

A commotion on the stairs materialised as a squad of aurors, headed by Piquery herself. They took aim, naturally, at the Obscurus. Graves thought he felt new heartsick tears of frustration tracking down his cheeks. 

The other fellow on the tracks came fully upright, waving his hands and wand futilely, too low to block anything. "Hey! Don't spook him." 

"Wands down! Anyone harms him—they'll answer to me!" Grindelwald shouted, to no avail. Piquery was already signalling. 

Graves spun and flung his arm out. "That's Gellert Grindelwald!" he bellowed in a voice of command. The force of it nearly knocked him over backwards. 

His aurors snapped their wands to the new target in reflex, then hesitated, confused. Credence was still haloed in inky blackness, hovering uncertainly over the subway tracks. 

"Hold your fire!" Goldstein said urgently. "We don't know what's going on." 

"Credence," Graves reached out desperately, putting himself between the unravelling young man and the squad of aurors. "Credence, he's Gellert Grindelwald—he's a criminal. He was using both of us. Don't give him what he wants; don't let him destroy you. I can help you now. Let me help you, Credence. Please. Please." 

He stared into Credence's white eyes. His hands solidified on Graves' forearms as his grip tightened. 

"No!" Grindelwald erupted. "Don't listen to his lies!" 

In trained reflex, Graves pulled Credence in and put his body between the boy and Grindelwald; but the dark wizard didn't quite dare to attack under the eyes of Piquery's auror squad, or maybe to leave himself open to them. Graves was aware of Goldstein and the other wizard coming up on his left, blocking Credence from the aurors. 

He held on. As long as Credence was solid, he was safe, they were all safe. He had done it. He hadn't failed again. 

"Graves? Oh my god, sir, is that really you?" Goldstein asked, able to get a better look at him now. 

"Tina, why isn't anyone arresting Grindelwald yet?" Graves ground out, rubbing Credence's bony back in what he hoped was a soothing manner. It seemed to be soothing _him_ a bit, anyway. 

"I want all of them. No one goes anywhere until I know what's going on here," Piquery rapped out. 

With a practical directive at last, the aurors divided themselves, and some of them _finally_ moved to apprehend Grindelwald. The ones around Graves, Credence, and Goldstein were increasingly drawn into the fight as Grindelwald resisted. Goldstein's friend did something, but Graves didn't budge. All his concentration was on holding Credence, like everything depended on his not letting go. It felt like forever since he'd touched anyone, far longer than his captivity. 

Piquery came to peer into his face. When she met his eyes, she looked disquieted and profoundly shaken. Graves stared back. 

"I'm going to protect him," Graves told her. Credence's breathing had the deliberate, too-deep regularity of someone holding off a panic attack. "You don't get him either." 

"Percival..." Piquery's voice was soft. 

"I'm sorry, Sera. I can't stay." 

"You know I can't just let you go." 

"Yes, you can. We're leaving New York, probably the country. I can teach him what he needs to know to be safe. You hear that, Credence? I'll keep you safe. You're going to be fine."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise that it was officially Transfiguration that Grindelwald used, but from what I can tell the chain of events went something like:
> 
> JKR: I need to have Grindelwald impersonate this dude. Jolly good thing I invented Polyjuice potion in the second book.  
> JKR: Oh, blast. I need a dramatic revelation at the climax, and Revelio doesn't work on Polyjuice. Well, there's nothing onscreen, so if anyone asks, I'll just say it was Human Transfiguration. Plothole avoided!
> 
> I have blatantly ignored this plothole.
> 
> Also, as this story progresses, it will become apparent that the first thing I fell in love with in this fandom was Graves' wardrobe. I make no apologies. Plus, you don't look that good by accident.


	2. Chapter 2

At the very last, it was Graves who almost lost it when Goldstein's British fellow volunteered to smuggle them out in his suitcase. They had a limited time-window while everyone was spellbound by the awesome spectacle of the thunderbird. 

"It's not dark in there at all," Scamander promised. 

"Jacob will be right behind you; he knows his way around," Queenie Goldstein added. Her face was strained; the pair of them must have been a horror for a legilimens like her. 

"Why—" 

"You don't want to be obliviated, do you?" Queenie asked him. 

The No-Maj's mouth snapped shut. 

It was Queenie who finally convinced him, but not with her words. Sensitised by Grindelwald's repeated assaults, Grave could _feel_ her in his mind. He didn't have the wherewithal to block her, but it was all he could do not to lash out, physically, magically. 

Queenie recoiled. Graves couldn't bring himself to feel badly. 

Steeling himself, Graves went in first. He had to admit, it was about as far from his black hole of a cell as it was possible to be. Credence was wholly transfixed by the menagerie of magical creatures (completely illegal to transport without permit in the US, a hitherto silent voice of duty awakened to pipe up). Graves found himself increasingly suspicious of Goldstein's new friend, but there wasn't much he could do. And he was just too damned tired. 

Credence had seized on Graves' hand again as soon as he descended into the case. The No-Maj wriggled down after them. More law-breaking; but again, Graves found himself hardly in a position to protest. 

"Hi, I don't think we've met. I'm Jacob Kowalski," he introduced himself. 

Automatically, the No-Maj proffered his hand. His expression wavered slightly as it caught up to him that that might not be the best idea; but after a brief hesitation, Credence shook it. 

"C-Credence Barebone, sir." 

"Nice to meet you, Mister Barebone." Kowalski smiled encouragingly. "And you, too, I guess, Mister Graves. So that other guy, he's really been pretending to be you this whole time? Like with magic?" 

"Yes." Credence's grip spared him the decision of whether to shake hands. 

"How—how long?" Credence asked. 

"He ambushed me on the Friday of the week I took over the—your case from Goldstein. I was lax; he'd gotten through my defences somehow." Graves swallowed dryly and turned the question around. "What does that make it?" 

"Almost two months." 

Graves closed his eyes. _Two months._

When he opened them, both Credence and Kowalski were looking concerned. _Pull yourself together, man._ Graves met Credence's eyes and squeezed his hand reassuringly. 

"Don't worry about Grindelwald; he's being handled. I got the bastard in the end, didn't I?" The absolute last thing they needed was for Credence's Obscurus to go rampaging after Grindelwald and tearing MACUSA apart. He might _escape. Salem spare us._

Credence looked uncertain. Graves pulled his composure around himself and met the boy's eyes with a clear gaze. "A shave and a haircut and I'll be more like myself." 

The corners of Credence's mouth wobbled in something like a smile at the terrible attempt at humour. One thing Graves have never had the knack for. 

"And maybe a clean shirt," Kowalski added impertinently. 

"Can I borrow your—no, I guess I can't." None of them had wands. 

"Well, let me show you around a little," Kowalski offered. "I'm sure the animals won't mind." 

Graves gave him a hard look, but Credence was instantly diverted. Kowalski had clearly been here before. He gave them a brief orientation, demonstrating at least a rudimentary appreciation of how dangerous these creatures could be, as they went. 

They were supposed to be on their way to Graves' apartment. The necessity of putting the city back together before the obliviating rain stopped gave them an opening before Picquery had a squad free to secure the scene. 

It was thankfully close to MACUSA and the City Hall subway station, or Graves probably would have collapsed before he got there. A creak from above had Graves reaching for a weapon he didn't have, heart all of a sudden pounding in his ears. But when the top of the case opened, it was only Goldstein poking her head down in to announce they'd arrived. 

"We're here. I think you ought to be the one to open the wards." 

"Yes. Good thinking." 

Graves let them through. Grindelwald hadn't changed the wards enough to create a problem. _Little good may that tampering alarm do the bastard now._

Having borrowed Goldstein's wand, he kept it as they made a quick sweep for obvious traps. Credence hung back, uncertain and brittle-looking, his eyes watching the wands hungrily instead of with fear. 

Grimly, Graves flicked the lid of Grindelwald's trunk shut. Queenie Goldstein flinched. 

Goldstein herself had approached Credence cautiously. "Credence. Do you remember me?" 

"Miss...Miss Goldstein?" The obliviators hadn't removed her from his mind completely after the incident with his mother; Graves had wanted an in. "You're really a witch?" 

"I am. Are you all right?" 

_What a stupid question._ Graves bit his tongue. 

"Did you know? All this time?" 

"No. No one knew." 

"Hey, guys, I think I'm gonna go keep Jacob company," Queenie Goldstein said, fleeing to Scamander's case. 

Credence hunched further. 

"It's me as much as you, Credence," Graves said, grimacing. "Queenie Goldstein is a natural legilimens; she has to make an effort _not_ to read a person's thoughts. And my defences are a mess right now." His defences were a joke right now. Queenie was a sweet girl, but being in the same room with her made his flesh crawl. 

Graves took his own valise from the closet. The expansion charm on it was only the standard one, but it would do. With a flick of the borrowed wand, Graves sent the clothes from his closet and dresser marching into it in ordered rows. Credence's eyes grew wide. Graves felt his lips twitch upward in a fleeting smile. 

"You are going to give that back, right, sir?" Goldstein said. 

"Of course, Tina." 

She still eyed him with suspicion. Graves didn't even know if Grindelwald had been using his wand, although a hopeful accio failed to produce it. It was beyond recovery now, either discarded by Grindelwald or confiscated by MACUSA. Graves had to resist the impulse to apparate over on the spot and ransack the evidence room. No, he'd just have to replace it. It was time to let go. 

"We've got to think about what our next step is," Graves said. They needed resources, a destination, a plan. Graves felt like his brain had been marinating in molasses. Had Grindelwald done permanent damage? _All you need is a good night's sleep,_ he told himself. _But you're not getting it, so buck up._

"Well, we ought to be able to sneak you two—three—out of town in my case, no problem," Scamander, the British wizard—smuggler?—said. 

"Yes, but then what?" Goldstein asked. "They won't be any safer in England than they are here. They'll need resources, something to live on." 

"I've got money, if Grindelwald hasn't taken that, too. Whatever he's got here, we leave for the department." 

Graves looked around. It was night, so it didn't necessarily mean anything that Phaenna's cage was empty. Credence had probably scared off half the owls in the city anyway, if Grindelwald hadn't gotten rid of her for her prickly disposition. 

"Well, I don't know how banks operate here, but back home they're closed this time of night," Scamander said. 

"We'll have to wait and go in first thing in the morning." Graves scratched his bearded chin. "Staying here that long is too risky, but I have to do something about my appearance. This is intolerable." 

"I'll take care of that, sir. You can't do the back well on your own anyway." 

Goldstein plucked her wand neatly out of his hand. Graves fingers clutched spasmodically, too late. His head spun. He forced himself to take deep breaths.

Goldstein's face said she hadn't missed his reaction. _Sharp girl._ She recovered herself quickly and prodded him to sit down. Graves' legs were far too weak to protest. He all but collapsed into the wooden chair. _Salem, I'm tired._

Credence looked briefly alarmed when she pointed her wand at Graves' head, then blinked when shampoo bubbles started streaming out the end. Prudently, Graves closed his eyes. 

Tina did a good enough job—the charmed scissors didn't take off anything other than hair, at least—but hesitated when she came to his beard. "I haven't practised this one since school." 

"Do you have a razor?" Credence asked unexpectedly. "Because I could do it." Credence looked like he was determined to do anything, so long as it got him out of this city. 

"Thank you," Graves said simply. "I don't trust my hand right now." 

Credence ducked away into the bathroom and returned moments later trying to juggle razor, brush, and pot of shaving cream. Tina finished flicking away the last of the loose hair and excused herself to stand lookout, closing the door behind her. 

Credence draped a towel around his neck, not that this shirt was worth protecting at this point, and carefully started spreading the lather over Graves' face. He glanced up once but dropped his gaze immediately when he saw Graves looking back at him. Graves held himself still, not knowing what to do or say and far too weary to do anything but accept this simple kindness. 

Pressed as they were for time, Graves still couldn't resist a wash and change of clothes. _Better than a bucket on a pole in Scamander's shack._ It was worth it to be clean again; but Salem, he was a rack of bones now. 

"I'm decent," he replied to a knock on the door, with only his tie and cuffs left to do, jacket and second-best coat draped over the back of the chair. Joking aside, Graves did almost feel like himself again, in a grey suit with an inky blue undervest, the sort of thing he'd usually wear on a day like this, sober, professional, and reassuring. 

Credence saw him and froze. Seeing Grindelwald; of course. _Damn the man._

Finishing with his cufflinks, Graves took up the ends of his tie. His Domestic Charms professor had insisted they learn to do this by hand before teaching them how to tie one with magic, but that had been a long time ago. Graves frowned into the mirror. _I can't have forgotten how to do this._

Credence's face creased into a puzzled expression. Graves assessed the knot he'd managed. It was a crime in its own right. He yanked it out with ill grace. 

"I surrender. I haven't done this without magic in decades." 

_Think of it as delegating,_ Graves told himself. That sounded a bit more dignified than _asking for help._ He missed his wand like someone had chopped off both his thumbs. 

There, was that a smile flickering across Credence's strained face. His hands were pale and long-fingered. Graves wouldn't have been surprised if Credence had wanted to keep his distance, but here he was with his hands on Graves again. 

Graves cupped the back of his neck briefly when he was done, a small, automatic gesture of thanks and approval. Credence finally met his eyes, staring intently into them. Searching for the differences between Graves and Grindelwald, Graves realised. For months, he'd fooled everyone. How different had he been? Graves put the thought aside. 

It might have been the smart move, but there was more than one reason Graves was reluctant to go back in the case. Besides the fact he still didn't know much about Scamander—dammit, _was_ he related to Theseus?—Graves didn't like the idea of leaving their safety to anyone else. He wanted to know what was going _on_. These were two of the qualities chiefly responsible for his appointment as Head of Magical Law Enforcement for the United States. 

But he also had judgement and self-control. Picquery might eventually suspect Goldstein and Scamander, but right now she'd be concentrating on finding Graves himself and especially Credence. Graves hoped she'd be wise enough to let them go. He'd left her a letter of explanation on his writing desk. She was a friend, but Graves wasn't at all sure that her better sense would win out over the kind of political pressures Credence would create if he stayed in America. 

Moreover, Graves wasn't certain how long his crisp and respectable appearance would last down among all these beasts. Credence had seized his hand again, staring about himself in open wonderment, about thirty seconds away from complete overload. 

Graves didn't have a great breadth of experience with children. He'd mentored countless novice aurors, though, so he knew the signs of a magically exhausted wizard nearing collapse. Firmly, Graves drew him away to sit on the dewy grass in the dark mooncalf environment. It was uncomfortable and damp but relatively clean, and, more importantly, dim and quiet. The No-Maj, unconcerned with the state of his rumpled clothing, rolled himself into the hammock strung up in Scamander's shack. 

Graves woke with Credence's head resting on his shoulder. The boy had both hands wrapped around Graves' right arm. Graves blinked down at him, slightly bemused. The true extent of the commitment he'd made in the subway was still dawning on him. There wasn't going to be any backing out of this decision. He was committed if he wanted to keep the city standing—maybe keep the world standing, or at least the International Statute of Secrecy. Everything that Graves had trained for, prepared for, and achieved, and the most important thing he might ever do was to teach this wretched man-child how to live a quiet life. _And who's going to teach you, eh?_

A pair of enormous, reflective blue eyes blinked down at him. They were surrounded. Graves tensed, then tried to force himself to relax. Mooncalves were benign, mostly. Graves had never been this close to one. He didn't like being outnumbered or penned in. 

Credence stirred, jerking his head up. Graves could hear his fast, panicky breathing as he tried to assess where he was, how he'd gotten here, and how he'd explain his absence to his mother. His hands clutched Graves' arm with surprising strength. 

He did a better job of relaxing as the memory of the past day came trickling back to him. His grip became less bruising, and he lifted his head fractionally, just enough to peek at Graves through the shadows. Graves ventured a hesitant smile. It felt stiff and awkward. 

Scamander's voice broke the silence. "Credence? Mister Graves? Now, where have you got off to?" 

"Over here." 

Graves clambered stiffly to his feet. Solicitously, Credence assisted him. Damn it all, the boy was in better shape than Graves was. _The resiliency of youth._

Scamander popped into view around one of the dividing curtains. "Ah. Yes. Good morning. Everything all right?" 

"Fine. What's happening in the city?" 

"Well, it seems mostly to be back in one piece," Scamander said, smiling encouragingly at Credence. "And old Frank has done his job quite well. No No-Maj the wiser." 

Scamander had something of Credence's habit of not looking a person in the eyes for very long, although he also gave the impression the rest of the world was too interesting for him to waste so much time looking at any single person's face. Or possibly he'd been told repeatedly that staring wasn't polite. He had a nervous manner, almost birdlike. Graves thought it was more than just lack of sleep. 

"And Picquery?" 

"Queenie sensed the squad coming in time for me to apparate away. Tina pretended she was there looking for you, too, but you'd already been and gone when she arrived. We're safe enough for the moment, and it's almost dawn." 

"Let's hope Grindelwald left something in my vault," Graves said. Most of the inheritance from his father should have been untouched. "Do you have a mirror?" 

Scamander produced one from a shaving kit. Abruptly self-conscious, Credence relinquished his hold and took a step back to hover by the entrance to the shack. Graves opened and closed the hand he'd been clinging to. It felt strangely cold. 

He examined himself critically. The gauntness of his face he could do nothing about. The hint of stubble on his jaw wasn't unreasonable for a man who'd been up all night dealing with a crisis. No-Maj Manhattan might have had its memory modified, but rumours would be running rampant through the magical community by now. 

Graves brushed off the worst of the dirt and grass smudging his coat. He couldn't help a grimace. _Good as it will get without a wand._ As much as it pained him, his rough appearance would lend verisimilitude. Goblins were sharp-eyed. 

"I'll send Tina down to keep you company," Graves told Credence. 

The boy's face pinched in around whatever response he wanted to give. Self-denial was what formed an Obscurus, self-denial and fear. 

Graves cupped his face, tilting it up until Credence met his eyes. "It'll be fine. I'll bring back breakfast," he added on impulse. "You have any chocolate?" he asked Scamander.

It was a basic remedy against the aftereffects of Dark magic. Scamander ducked his head in immediate understanding. "Of course. Got some stashed somewhere. Should have thought of it myself, really."

When Graves clambered out of the case, he found himself in an alley. The ambient glow from the cloud cover overhead was transitioning from the reflected light of streetlamps to a steely sunrise. It was cold. Graves counted ahead; it had to be almost December. Anything that fell from those clouds today would be snow, not rain. 

"Good morning, sir," Goldstein greeted him. She had dark circles under her eyes. 

"Good morning," he replied by rote. "Any trouble?" 

Goldstein shook her head. "Queenie's at Kowalski's apartment, packing. We're planning on following you in a week, maybe sooner. Even given recent events, I should be able to get some time off for my sister's wedding." 

As long as she didn't mention who she was marrying. Graves nodded. "Where'd you find this Scamander fellow? I suppose he's related to the British Auror," he seized the opportunity to inquire while they were alone. 

"Uh, his younger brother, I think. He's a magizoologist. Worked with dragons during the war," Goldstein said. 

"Magi-what?" Graves muttered, shaking his head. 

He'd corresponded with Theseus to coordinate the search for Grindelwald. Had he mentioned a brother? Graves' initial impression was that the two didn't seem all that much alike. But for all his bumbling demeanour, Newt Scamander wasn't missing any limbs or visibly burned, which was something. 

The charms work Graves had seen was exceptional, maintaining so many different environments side by side, creating both space and the illusion of space. That case, for example, was expanded far beyond the standard dimensions. Graves had had a moment's worry stowing his own suitcase inside Scamander's, since putting one magically enlarged container inside another sometimes caused one or both charms fail and the contents to explode outwards. Graves remembered that demonstration from his schooling vividly. 

"He's seen an Obscurial before," Goldstein added. 

Graves looked at her sharply. Goldstein's expression was subdued. Graves knew why. If Scamander had seen an Obscurial before, he'd seen a child die. Because Obscurials died; they died unbearably young. Credence was a prodigy. He was impossible—and impossibly dangerous. Obviously, Goldstein was still too emotionally involved. 

Before, Graves had worried that she was too soft-hearted to be an auror. Now, though, he found himself sharing her concern, and on more than just a professional level. 

Of course, Graves didn't really want to examine his own fitness for anything just now. 

"Well, give me your wand and in the case with you." 

Goldstein returned a dry look under her eyebrows for this attempt at humour, but proffered her wand, handle-first. Graves took it with profound, if temporary, relief. 

"I told the boy you'd keep him company. Don't let him get bowled over in that zoo down there." 

Goldstein's expression softened. "Of course. Good luck." 

Gringotts New York was in the Sub-City, a portion of the tunnels under Manhattan magically protected from No-Majs, much like London's fabled Diagon Alley. Even this early, there were witches and wizards coming and going along the shop fronts, goblins and house-elves weaving through them. 

Graves strode down the way, nodding shortly in response to a few greetings but not stopping. He descended the bank steps briskly, carrying the incongruous battered case like it was something he was taking to lock away in a vault. 

"Director Graves," the goblin clerk greeted him, his ears pricking. 

"Gasheye," Graves said. 

"Dark magic in the air last night. I hear Grindelwald himself unleashed a mob of dementors on the city and killed two hundred No-Majs." 

Graves hoped that figure was exaggerated. He concealed a wince. "I'm sure the _Ghost_ has printed MACUSA's statement by now. My personal vault, please." 

Gasheye sighed, used to the deflexion. "It must have been Grindelwald. I think I see a hair out of place." 

Thankfully, he'd already turned his back to lead off down the dank corridors to the vaults, so he missed the slightly frozen expression his remarks elicited on Graves' face. He smoothed it out, following the menacing little goblin deeper into the island's bowels. 

Graves knew most of the goblins who worked in the bank by sight and many of them by name. MACUSA had an entire section down here, and Graves had been involved in more than one investigation that lead through someone's bank vault. Scamander's wasn't the strangest collection Graves had ever encountered, he reflected. It came close, though. 

"Something under the table, huh?" Gasheye asked conversationally. 

"You know I can't tell you that," Graves said. 

The most expensive vaults were actually under the main bank in London. They were accessible only via specially enchanted portkeys. People who tried to enchant their own portkeys into those vaults usually found themselves transported into volcanoes, high orbit, or the depths of the ocean instead. The Graves family vault had a portkey only his mother could use now his father was gone. Graves' personal one wasn't quite that secure, but it was a defence he wished he knew how to duplicate. 

Grindelwald hadn't changed his vault or, Graves was relieved to discover, his vault security. The contents even still seemed to be there. Graves cast the standard array of hex-detectors, just to be sure. Goldstein's wand was a little sulky, but it performed for him. 

Gasheye watched with avid interest. Well, if anyone honoured confidentiality, it was a Gringott's goblin. Whatever Picquery could compel him to reveal later wouldn't tell her anything Graves hadn't already made clear. 

Graves opened the case and sent the pile of gold and silver streaming in. He peered down, aiming the shining snake of coins into the second case. Goldstein was letting Credence hold it open. The boy looked past the river of coins to find his face, seeming to ease a little when he saw him. _I won't leave you down there forever._

Graves' savings were more than respectable. His biggest expense besides rent was replacing the suits he ruined on the job. Of course, in this city, neither of those things came cheap. 

Picquery hadn't caught up with him yet by the time he left the bank. Graves had kept some dragots for his own pockets. He'd cast an Unforgivable for a cup of coffee, and he'd promised to bring back breakfast. 

While he was at it, Graves picked up a copy of the _New York Ghost_ , too. He was drifting towards Jonkers—he needed a wand as soon as possible; Goldstein's was fine, but she kept wanting it back; and besides, it was like trying to walk using someone else's feet—when he recognised O'Hara and Shay looking sleepless and passably casual as they very deliberately swept the Sub-City streets, closing in on Gringotts New York. 

One of the latches on Scamander's case popped open. Graves dropped back into a shadowed alcove. Before he snapped it closed, a pair of sharp little claws started prying at the seam of the case. _Mercy Lewis, what has this menace brought into my city?_

Case secured, Graves disapparated before he could be caught out. The effort left him unexpectedly drained, and he realised his legs were shaking. He slumped against the wall of another dingy alleyway. It was a long minute before he trusted them with his weight. He had Goldstein's wand out when he did, ready to contain anything that might come charging out of the infernal suitcase. More exposure and property damage were the last thing they needed. 

Setting the case on the ground, he rapped the top smartly with Goldstein's wand. "Everything under control in there?" 

"Uh, yes, well—yes," Scamander's voice drifted up distantly. 

"It's fine, sir. The niffler's contained." 

Graves didn't ask, although he suspected he'd find out soon enough. He exchanged places with Goldstein, handing back her wand for the last time. Halfway down into the case, he turned back to her. 

"Tina. Thank you. I know you'll do me proud back here." 

"I'm the one who should be thanking you, sir." Goldstein's smile was only slightly watery. "I know what you're doing for him." 

"For him. Right, of course." Bundling down the desperate, howling thing in his chest, he clenched his jaw and forced himself to descend the rest of the way and even close the case after himself. 

Inside, Graves discovered that the patch of blazing desert outside Scamander's shack that had formerly been occupied by the Thunderbird had been transfigured into a small but lavish dormitory with three canopied four-poster beds, complete with mustard velvet hangings. Credence looked thoroughly captivated by having witnessed so much real magic, but he turned away from the spectacle at Graves' return, tracking him with shadowed eyes. 

"So this is what you're used to at Hogwarts," Graves said to Scamander. 

"What, Ilvermorny don't really make you lot sleep out in the woods, do they?" 

"Jealous?" Graves asked. 

He set the paper down on a small table that had also been conjured up and started unpacking— 

"Oh, hey, bagels!" Kowalski exclaimed excitedly. Then, less certainly, "Bagels?" 

"Every-flavor bagels. I think this batch is salt, lox, orange zest, grapefruit, dill, and that's either pine needles or peppermint." Graves had had a coffee with liquorice schmear. And what had turned out to be a peanut with charcoal. Food was wonderful. 

" _Pine_ needles?" Scamander said, scooping up the fragrant, slightly greenish one and sniffing it. "Fascinating." 

"Seriously?" Kowalski picked up the salmon-coloured bagel and examined it before taking an experimental bite. "Woah. How'd they do that? And what's this schmear? Salt-water taffy?" 

"Probably just salt water," Graves said, pulling a large brick of dark chocolate out of his pocket. "Going by the colour." 

"Incredible. Here, try one," Kowalski urged. 

Credence looked at the offerings a little askance, but food was food. Graves was relieved in hindsight that Scamander had taken the potentially alarming tree-flavoured one off the table. Maybe he should have been more careful what he picked up. 

At least Scamander had had the sense to create something like a normal space in the middle of this menagerie. It wasn't like they could risk buying tickets on a boat or travelling openly. They were still ahead of Picquery, but not that far ahead. No, the three of them were going to be spending a lot of time down here. 

Something roared out of sight. Graves permitted himself an internal sigh and took another bagel in lieu of screaming back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I'm so not used to writing in active fandoms. You guys are awesome. :D
> 
> You can follow me on tumblr at [conditionalriverofabsolutelove](http://conditionalriverofabsolutelove.tumblr.com/).


	3. Chapter 3

Scamander had them on a boat before nightfall, but the tension in Graves' shoulders didn't ease. They wouldn't be out of practical broom or apparition range for days. At his best, Graves might have been able to manage Manhattan to England; but he was definitely in no condition to attempt it now. Sticking a moving target like a ship would be too chancy for a usefully large group of aurors past about a couple hundred miles. 

Queenie Goldstein had caught up with them again before they left. She'd brought extra food along with her No-Maj beau's luggage. Scamander had tactfully invited Graves and Credence along while he made the rounds of his private zoo to give the couple time to say their goodbyes in private, providing Graves' flight from her with a veneer of civility. 

Scamander, raising Graves' opinion of him fractionally, had taken the opportunity to give them both a more thorough and safety-minded run-down on the creatures he kept here. He seemed to be actually fond of them. Graves, whose main experience with animals, magical or not, other than post owls and pigeons had been at Ilvermorny, had to admit that he'd never met anyone who knew so much about them. When he encountered magical creatures on the job, his main concern was always containment. 

"What's that?" Graves had asked, standing back from a large, leonine creature with a spiny frill, although Scamander was stroking its neck and it was rubbing its face on his chest. One of the graphorns, the biggest one, had run its tentacles all over Graves' head and face during their feeding, and Scamander had insisted he stand still for it. He'd been about ready to crawl out of his skin. 

"You don't know?" Credence had been surprised into asking. 

"I know it's illegal." 

"You can't know that something's illegal if you don't even know what it is," Scamander had objected. "And as Nundu are native to Africa, I wouldn't expect New York has seen very many in any case." 

_Not your job anymore,_ Graves had reminded himself. 

Now, although there was still a risk of being caught by the No-Maj crew, Graves had brought Credence out on deck under cover of night for a private word. He didn't know about the boy, but he definitely breathed more easily in the actual open. What he wouldn't give to be able to make this journey by broom. 

"How are you holding up? A lot's happened since last night." Graves broke the silence, speaking softly in the thick salt air. 

Credence, skin luminously pale and eyes dark, stared out over the sea, the ocean liner's white wake frothing across dully gleaming black waves. For the first time, Graves noticed that the lines and planes of his face were really very striking. His habitual sullen, downcast expression and unflattering bowl cut normally disguised this unexpected beauty. 

"I don't even know what to think." Credence's voice was barely a whisper. "The devil put a monster inside of me. I've done wicked things. And now suddenly everyone's telling me nothing's like I thought. You weren't you, and witchcraft isn't evil, and for some reason, everybody wants to be nice to me. Is it because you're afraid? Afraid I'll do it again?" 

When he looked at Graves, there was a challenge in his eyes. Graves could almost see the Obscurus there, seething behind the dark pupils. _Credence_ could fly away if he wanted to, just melt into the depthless night sky. 

Leaning his elbows on the rail, Graves answered. "I'm not afraid of you, Credence; and I don't think you're a monster. I'm afraid _for_ you. I became an auror in order to protect people, and I failed to protect you." Him, and the rest of New York. "The rules of our society are designed to prevent the sort of thing that happened to you. That's why we're secret. People who don't believe in magic don't persecute it." 

Graves watched the personal relevance of that statement penetrate. No, the boy wasn't stupid. Credence's hands on the railing tightened, the bone of his knuckles showing through his skin. 

"Our laws should have protected you, and they didn't. We should have found you, and we didn't. Grindelwald only got to you because he got to me first. I should have stopped him." 

Credence gave him an odd look. "But you saved me. G-Grindelwald, all of that was because of me. I don't deserve any of this. All I ever do is make things worse." 

His hands were still strangling the cold metal of the rail. Graves covered the nearest one with his own and squeezed, trying to convey reassurance. 

"How old are you, Credence?" 

"Twenty-four." 

Twenty-four. _Sweet Salem._ "What you did, what you become, we call that an Obscurus. Did you know that before you, the oldest Obscurial on record died before she turned eleven? Every breath you take is a miracle." 

The boy looked at him, and suddenly he was _dangerous_ , although the emotion bleeding through onto his face was more like panic. "That's what he said." 

"Grindelwald's a son of a bitch, not an idiot," Graves said with flat honesty, which was as close to comforting as he usually managed. It got Credence's attention, anyway. "You are stronger and braver than I think you understand. And that is what makes you worth protecting." 

Graves lay awake that night, tired but with the darkness behind his eyelids too full of nightmares to sleep. He'd left the heavy curtains around his bed deliberately open. During his captivity, he'd been immobilised and effectively blinded, and waking and sleeping had blurred together. Grindelwald's invasions of his mind had made it even more difficult to tell the difference, smearing old horrors with new until he choked on screams he was powerless to voice.

He wasn't the only one having a bad night. Credence whimpered and twitched, curling in on himself. Lying there in the dark, helpless not to hear, brought him to the edge of something raw and overpowering. 

Unable to stand it anymore, Graves pushed back the hangings and dragged one of the conjured straight chairs over to the boy's bedside. He could do this much, anyway. Gently, he smoothed down Credence's shiny black hair to still the tiny jerking motions of his head. 

"Shh," he murmured when Credence stirred. "It's Graves; you're safe." 

Graves took his hand and sat back, rubbing his thumb soothingly over his knuckles, wondering whether it was his voice or Grindelwald's that had banished Credence's nightmares. 

 

Graves spent most of the crossing walking in the enchanted mountain plateau, trying to pretend it wasn't an illusion. He needed to regain his strength; he needed to pull himself together. 

Graves would have preferred the savannah, sunny and open, but the graphorns seemed to like him better than the erumpent did. The massively horned beast only really seemed to like Kowalski, for some reason. And nothing much other than the graphorns actually went into the dreary mountains, which was more than could be said for the human habitat around Scamander's shack. 

The graphorn calves romped over to investigate Graves, running their tentacles over his trousers. Graves endured the indignity under the watchful eyes of the much larger graphorn parents, who signalled their approval by disarranging his hair. They had a dank, mossy odour that made his nose itch. 

Credence studied him just as carefully. Across the little breakfast table, from the edges of the bleak conjured mountains as Graves let himself be unceremoniously manhandled. Credence seemed to accept their plans for him, but since when had the boy had any control over his own life? He knew what he could do now. Graves had better deliver. 

Some of the creatures liked Credence; others, he scared away. The pixies and doxies fled from him in clouds, which was just as well. But he'd sit for hours with the occamy, letting one wind itself around his hands and arms, sharing his warmth in exchange for simple affection. Interestingly, the demiguise was very solicitous of him, bringing offerings of fruit and little flowers. According to Scamander, it could see into the future. It was probably trying to decrease the likelihood of Credence ransacking the place. 

"Doesn't anything live in the snow field? You never go in there," Credence said while Scamander was making his rounds one day. 

Scamander and Kowalski exchanged a look. Graves' attention sharpened. 

"I told you about the girl I met in the Sudan," Scamander began, darting a glance at Credence and then looking away. 

"The girl who was—like me." 

"Yes. I was trying to help her, but things went...went wrong. I managed to separate the Obscurus from the girl, but she still died. I preserved it in here. Gr—Grindelwald took it when Tina hauled us in. I don't know where it is now; still in MACUSA somewhere, probably. I put it in there because it was empty, and—she had never seen the snow." 

Scamander wasn't looking at anyone now. Graves hadn't heard that story before; but from the looks of him, Kowalski had. 

"I don't understand. Separate it—you can get it out of me? Is that where we're going?" 

"It's very dangerous, you see. I couldn't save the little girl, and her Obscurus was much less powerful than yours." 

"If you're not strong enough—could _you_ do it, Mister Graves?" Credence turned to him, a wild hope lighting his face for a moment before his brow furrowed. "But wait—if you did it—if it worked—what about my magic? Would I be able to learn?" 

Graves opened his mouth, then closed it. "I don't know. Scamander's the closest thing we have to an expert." 

"And quite frankly, I don't know either. Between the two of us, Mister Graves and I might be able to manage, but it's not something that's been done before. Not successfully, anyway. No telling what would happen." 

"So what are you going to do with me?" Credence asked. 

There was a shiver of tension in the air, power on the verge of waking. Graves realised that all the animal noises had gone quiet. 

He'd made the decision days ago, but saying it was another matter. "We're going to go somewhere, you and me. Somewhere a lot further away than England, somewhere no one will be looking for us. And if you want, yes, I'll try and teach you magic." 

Longing opened up like a pit in Credence's eyes, underneath that awful power. "Yes. Please. I would like that more than anything." 

 

The crossing took five days. They stayed in Britain just long enough for Queenie and Kowalski's wedding. The ceremony was the only time Graves and Credence risked leaving the case after they made port. 

Graves was much more reconciled to the No-Maj than the other curiosities Scamander had collected by the time the Goldstein sisters caught up with them. Kowalski's open enthusiasm and curiosity was a bit wearing, but it seemed to make it easier for Credence to express his own interest. 

"It doesn't bother you, the way she reads your mind?" Graves had to ask Kowalski at one point, curious. 

Queenie Goldstein was a spectacularly intuitive legilimens. Graves could—had been able to—keep her out, if he made an active effort. He'd had her sister bring her in on interrogations a few times, with an eye to potentially recruiting her for regular duty. To his disappointment at the time, she didn't have the temperament for that kind of work. Now even the thought was enough to make him nauseous. 

Kowalski had smiled. "Naw, I mean, I think it's great. All of this is amazing." He gestured at the magical space around them. "How could I not want to be a part of it?" 

The expression on Credence's face was of such conflicted yearning it tugged at something in Graves' heart. He had grown up knowing magic as a tool. It was a wild and dangerous one, often with a mind of its own. He'd seen and done too much to share Kowalski's wide-eyed wonderment. But he was being newly reminded of all the ways magic made a wizard's world different from the No-Majs'. And it had been impossible to witness Credence's Obscurus and not be profoundly awed by the raw power and force of magic. It refused to be thwarted or denied. 

Credence seemed to be in control, for now. No cloud of violent trauma had engulfed the ship or stampeded Scamander's erumpent; and by the weeping ghosts of all those hanged in Salem, what kind of madman kept an erumpent for a pet? 

In the midst of all the wedding preparations, Graves managed to pin Tina Goldstein down for an update. 

"Picquery's put the word out to every major magical community," she confirmed what Scamander had already told him. "You might be able to convince her different if you talk to her, but Credence..." 

Graves gestured his understanding. "If she can't control him, she'll want to destroy him. And no one has ever been able to tame an Obscurial." They ripped themselves apart. 

"Most of the other magical leaders seem to feel it's the safest option, given the scale of what happened in Manhattan," Goldstein told him, frowning in disapproval. "Where are you going to take him? Is anywhere going to be safe?" 

Graves had been thinking a lot about that. He'd talked with Scamander. While he still wasn't convinced the man wasn't a lunatic, he did know a lot about deserted places. 

"The more remote the place, the safer we'll be. For now, I want to stay as far as I can from everybody. From what you've told me, we should avoid established magical communities, too." 

"I'm supposed to be keeping an eye out for you, by the way, and checking to make sure Mister Scamander really is as clueless as he looks," Goldstein said wryly. "Picquery suspects about him sneaking Kowalski out, but not about you. She still thinks you grabbed Credence and disapparated away, and she'll find you gone to ground upstate or maybe in Canada." 

"Well, at least you got your job back. You know I wasn't going to let Picquery demote you in the first place." 

"It's nice to hear, sir." 

Graves grunted. "You bucking for department head now to spite her?" 

Goldstein's eyes glittered, but she didn't quite laugh. "The job's still open." 

"Give it at least ten years." Graves pursed his lips. "Lovelace or Haley. Maybe Lee." 

"Should I pass along a recommendation, sir?" Goldstein offered dryly. 

Graves opened a hand palm-up in a releasing gesture. "Fine. Not my job anymore. It's a hard habit to break," he added ruefully. 

"You have other responsibilities, now," Goldstein reminded him. 

 

The ceremony was small and private. Graves and Credence attended, magically disguised. Credence had stared for a long time at his altered face in the mirror. He was thankfully close enough in size to borrow clothes from Graves. That made an huge improvement, although it was painfully obvious the suit hadn't been tailored for him. 

Weddings had never held much interest for Graves, but the couple seemed satisfied with the proceedings. Queenie was radiant, and Kowalski had a stunned smile plastered across his face. 

Graves shook his hand before they parted ways. Kowalski followed his distracted gaze to where a bemused Credence was being hugged warmly by the bride. 

"Take care of him, huh? He's a good kid." 

"Good luck, Mister Kowalski." 

"Something tells me you'll need it more than me." 

 

Scamander also took him aside for a private word before they set out on the next leg of their journey. He glanced around nervously, as usual looking at anything but the person he was talking to. 

"Are you sure you're up to this?" he asked. "Because you've been—well, I don't really know what you've been through, but I wouldn't imagine it was pleasant. I'd be happy to look after Credence."

Like one of his half-tamed creatures? Graves grimaced.

"You want to know if Grindelwald broke me," Graves translated baldly. He did not say, _he kept me in the dark; he turned my soul inside out._ "It's no surprise that he knows what he's doing, but I've been broken before. I'll get over it." 

Scamander ducked his head. "It's just that Credence..."

Credence didn't need his self-appointed protector and mentor going nuts on top of everything els. Graves both acknowledged and dismissed Scamander's concerns with a flick of his wrist. 

"Don't worry about me, Newt. I'm a tough bastard."

The corners of Scamander's mouth tugged upwards in a smile. "That's what Tina says."

"You should listen to her. She's got a good head on her shoulders; in a few years, she'll level out." Tina wasn't the best witch in the department; but she was a good investigator, and by Salem she was persistent.

Scamander did look at him now. Of course, then he forgot to say anything. Graves raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Scamander shook his head as though to clear it. "Sorry. Sometimes you just seem..."

"I saw him; he was good," Graves said darkly.

"Well, yes, I suppose. It's just that he didn't actually get it quite right."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Instead discover how_  
>  _To forget those hours_  
>  _That would kill_  
>  _Beating with questions_  
>  _The joyful heart._  
>  _Only do not leave_  
>  —Ne me quitte pas

After much debate, Graves and Scamander had decided on Australia as their final destination. The trip there took much longer. It was different in the case, with only Graves and Credence there among the creatures. It didn't feel like they were escaping anymore. This was what it would be from now on, just the two of them, shut in here. 

"You said you'd teach me magic," Credence worked himself up to say a few days after they left England. "Do we have to wait?" 

They were tending the smaller, less dangerous creatures. Credence was cradling an occamy in both hands, watching it sway snake-like as it regarded him in return. 

"Not for everything," Graves said, weighing his words. "Let's finish up here first." 

"We don't have a wand for you—" _or for me,_ "—yet, but there are other ways to do magic," Graves told his pupil when they were settled facing each other in a pair of armchairs that had used to be Kowalski's bed. 

Concentrating, Graves gestured, and a cup came floating off the table between them and into his hand. Credence watched with hungry eyes. 

"Sometimes you—he," Credence faltered, "would heal me like that." He curled his fingers around his palm, unconsciously protective. 

"I'd need a wand. Grindelwald is a more powerful wizard than I am," he admitted unhappily. 

"Is that how he—" Credence cut himself off, his face colouring. 

"Yes," Graves said simply. "I cast magical protections on my apartment, but he got through them. Only a very, very skilled wizard could have done that without my knowing. Because I assumed I was safe, he got the drop on me. Sloppy." 

"So most wizards need wands to do magic." 

"It's the easiest way. Wands are more than just conduits; they're magical themselves. They amplify your power. The wand chooses the wizard, they say." 

"What does that mean?" 

"A lot of magic is like that. Magical things tend to have minds of their own. That's what makes having the right wand so important. A good wand is your ally. It helps you work spells with more control and precision. I think African wizards are like our Indians and use them less. The Indians are the source of most of our wandless techniques. I should have grabbed my school things; I wasn't thinking. Never mind." 

"School?" Credence asked, surprised. 

"Of course. Ilvermorny students start at eleven, when magical development takes off." That was one of the theories for why Obscurials died before then; the growing power overwhelmed them. Not Credence, though. Somehow. "You'd have been invited, if anyone had known about you. We have ways of finding magical children, even the No-Maj born." 

Credence's expression became closed and inward again. Thinking of the life the Barebone woman had stolen from him. 

Despite his diffidence, Credence was bursting with so many questions that he didn't notice Graves hadn't actually taught him any spells before Scamander dropped in to make his evening rounds. When he brought it up the next day, Graves' response was to start unceremoniously rooting through Scamander's things. Some people called it being nosy, but Graves had always had an inquisitive mind. 

"Even British spell-books will be better than nothing." Graves kicked himself again for forgetting his own. A wizard's mind was his greatest weapon; everything else was just details. Time to get the boy's mind working. 

"Should we be doing this?" 

Graves tossed his suit jacket over a chair and moved another pile of junk that had been mouldering on top of a scorched-looking steamer trunk. "Well, he left it all down here with us." He opened the clasps. "Aha! Take a look in here. You can at least be reading up on the basics while we travel. To be honest, I wouldn't want you experimenting with spells in here anyway." 

"Do you think I won't be able to do magic without letting it out?" Despite the improvement to his confidence—not to mention his wardrobe and hair, which he'd started to pomade in a style similar to Graves'—he suddenly looked very much like the pale, hangdog Second Salem boy Graves had first observed. 

"Novice wizards make mistakes," Graves told him in the tone he used to buck up faltering auror-trainees. "Sometimes they're noisy. I don't want to be in the middle of an erumpent stampede. Can you imagine what would happen if the occamy nest got knocked over? The size this thing is inside?" Graves waved his hand at the expanse stretching out on the other side of the shack's walls. 

Credence frowned. "I don't think one of anything can be a stampede." 

"Have you looked that that thing? One erumpent is more than enough. And there are potion-making ingredients down here. The worst thing you can do with potions is melt your cauldron, and you don't really need a wand for brewing." Graves nodded, pleased. 

It was probably better to ease the boy into things anyway. He seemed more than willing to accept the books as a pledge of Graves' good faith, diving into them with more alacrity than their original owner ever had, Graves was sure. 

Hopefully that would keep him from going stir-crazy during what promised to be more than a month's plodding journey by No-Maj ship. What Scamander had cobbled together down here was impressive, if somewhat slapdash, but most of the space was taken up by the creatures. The various habitats were arranged in a ring around what was really a pretty small central space around the crude shack, which was more of a workshop than anything, its door serving to more or less keep the creatures away from his more sensitive work and the exit to the world outside. 

That was important because the beasts didn't always stay in their habitats. Even the aquatic creatures would go swimming through the air in individual bubbles of water, a sight which made Credence's eyes go wide. The flock of flightless diricawls was constantly popping in and out of existence around your feet, and for a creature that could see the future, the invisible demiguise managed to get in the way a lot. At least the lethifolds were securely confined. No wand meant no patronus. 

Graves was starting to feel his confinement, crowded around by this bizarre menagerie. Worse, he wasn't _used_ to not having anything to do. There was Credence and the animals. And while he spent a certain amount of time teaching Credence, the boy was obviously not used to a whole lot of social interaction. Whatever he was doing that he'd managed to hold himself together this long, the last thing Graves wanted to do was disrupt it. 

With another look at Credence's head bent quietly over a first-year Charms book, Graves plucked up a sheet of parchment and an extra quill. He'd have preferred a fountain pen, but British wizards took great pride in being stuck in the dark ages. He was surprised they actually printed the _Daily Prophet_ instead of having it calligraphed by House Elves or something.

Back in his Manhattan apartment, Graves had jotted a hasty note of explanation and official resignation and left it on the desk for his former department to find. But they and Picquery probably deserved more than the date Grindelwald had replaced him; _I, Percival Siorus Graves, do hereby resign my post_ ; and, _I'm taking the Obscurial into hiding. Don't come after us. Find a dark hole for Grindelwald and by Proctor don't let him out._

Since they hadn't killed him resisting arrest, there would be a trial. As a rare surviving...victim—Graves didn't like the word; it lingered uncomfortably in his mind—his written statement would be worth something as evidence. _One last duty to discharge._ And then let him be free of it. 

Aside from having to rely on Scamander for demonstrations, Credence's studies were going well. Both Scamander and his wand were even less enthusiastic than Goldstein about sharing. Among other things, the constant absence of a wand of his own was dragging up old memories of, well, the last time Graves had lost a wand. Grindelwald had pulled a lot of stuff out of Graves' head, and he was having trouble cramming it all back down again. 

His self-assigned project, the testimony against Grindelwald, that was the key. If he could just finish it, lay it all out for Picquery and the court, he'd never have to think about it again. Graves used up more than a roll of parchment, writing until his hand cramped. 

At least Credence was improving. After the first day or so of upset and confusion, when he'd latched onto Graves like a limpet just to have a safe, physical anchor, he'd withdrawn for most of the voyage across the Atlantic. Graves had felt that haunted gaze on himself frequently, but if there was one interpersonal dynamic he'd mastered, it was giving people space. Meanwhile, it had given him time to rack his curdled brains for a plan of action. 

Crowding Credence would almost certainly have been counterproductive. Either he was going to get over associating Graves with Grindelwald enough for this to work or he wasn't. Pressuring the boy would only make that connexion leap out; and anyway, any kind of pressure was liable to crack him open right now, with disastrous results.

Graves' instinct had been borne out. Once Credence had gotten himself settled in the face of what his life now was, he'd stopped keeping that wary distance between them. Apparently, Graves was enough unlike Grindelwald to be tolerated, which was something. You did start to wonder. 

Now, Credence would even speak without being spoken to first, from time to time. He was still having nightmares, though. _Well, he's not the only one._

With the No-Maj gone and no one there to witness, Graves held him like a child through the night. Credence never objected. In fact, neither of them ever mentioned it. 

It helped him, too. Graves knew it was weak of him, but Credence's bony, living warmth reminded him that he was no longer trapped alone in the dark. When he could sleep, he could sleep with something approaching peace. 

Graves tried to tell himself that his actions were all reasoned and practical. Credence had to be removed as a possible weapon from the political stage, but turning him loose on his own would be equally disastrous. Someone had to keep an eye on him, keep him calm and secret; and Graves had been compromised by Grindelwald. 

He wasn't a coward. In other circumstances, he'd have fought for the career he'd built and the service he'd dedicated his life to. But he had seen in a flash of comprehension the course events would follow if he stayed and let Picquery have Credence. It would be too much temptation. With his name tarnished and his fitness under review, he'd no longer have the influence to shield the boy, wouldn't have the time to spare to teach him. Used and isolated, he'd have lost control again.

No, Credence had had to go; and Graves had had to go with him, to teach him enough to keep the agonised power inside him from destroying himself and anyone else nearby. Graves told himself that the comfort he gave the boy was the only sensible way to keep him calm and that staying close was the best way to watch for trouble. There was nothing inappropriate or irrational in his behaviour. 

There was no point in sitting around brooding about it, anyway. What was done was done. The point was always what needed to be done next. 

So Graves walked Credence through the basics of magic and the world that had driven him into hiding before he even got to see it. He ruthlessly pillaged the shack's stores of potions ingredients; Scamander hardly seemed to mind, expanding on the useful properties of various beasts including the ones he tended, both known and experimental. 

Graves hadn't brewed much in years, although he'd been pretty good back when he was an active auror and it took less than major crises to get him out from behind his desk. He was pleased to discover he hadn't lost the knack for it. Most of the beginner potions were fairly harmless, things like Tongue Twister and Stain Solution, which was a necessity down among all the scales and fur and leavings of animals from diricawls to runespoors. Graves bullied Scamander into demonstrating the Hiccoughing Potion, the results of which nearly had Credence smiling. They also managed a Dreamless Sleep, to Graves' satisfaction. Now _that_ would be useful. 

And in-between, Graves came back inevitably to his account of his capture and imprisonment by Grindelwald. He wrote neatly with the ridiculous quill, careful not to let his hand shake and splatter the page. In his best professional style, dry and dispassionate, he explained how Grindelwald had kept him alive but restrained for his memories and usefulness as a potions ingredient, cracking his mind open like a walnut to pry out the information he needed for his masquerade. 

He included only Grindelwald. Graves did not write about how it had felt, waking up in the dark for the first time with the familiar pain of a stupefaction headache throbbing at his temples. At first, it had disguised the feeling of someone prying at his mental defences. 

He wrote that he had not seen Grindelwald at all that first night until the very end, when he'd taken the Polyjuice Potion and looked down at Graves wearing his own face. He didn't mention what Grindelwald had used to break him open—and even woozy from stunning, Graves was an accomplished occlumens. Grindelwald had known what he was looking for, waiting until Graves was tired and striking unexpectedly where it was hardest for him to control his emotions. 

In the end, Grindelwald used Graves' own memories to defeat him. Over two decades as an auror, with four years of war thrown into the middle, had supplied him with all the horrors he could wish. It wasn't really a very nice job. It threw violence, horror, desperation, and despair at you every day. It took things from you, and nothing you could give back was enough to fix what was wrong. 

Graves didn't write any of that, either. Methodically, he left out all the cruelty the world had confronted him with, all the bad calls and hard choices, all the people he'd killed—everyone he'd let die. His pain and torment still seemed to scream up at him from the parchment, no matter how bland and factual he made the words. 

Dealing with Credence was almost a relief in comparison. To his own surprise, Graves was starting to like the boy. Most people, if he'd been stuck in a suitcase with them for weeks on end, he'd have been out sleeping with the graphorns by now, or possibly in the eerily deserted snow fields, sub-zero temperatures be hanged. By nature, Graves tended to keep even his friends at arm's length. He was famous for working extended stakeouts on his own, since every time he'd done one with a partner it had ended with a change of partners. Picquery had remarkably still been willing to speak with him after they got out of that blind; but of course she'd been working with one of his sisters for a while, which took some grit. Graves did feel bad about running out on Picquery.

Credence was different. Graves had felt protective of the boy from the beginning, but watching an inquisitive mind slowly wake from under a lifetime's harsh repression was unexpectedly rewarding. Credence was at least intelligent, and a wizard's mind was his greatest asset. It was a decent start. 

The awareness that Credence had known so little kindness before now spurred him to take extra pains to extend him what consideration he could. Graves was starting to feel his own inadequacies as a teacher, though. Tutoring new aurors in useful spells was as close as he'd come, and you had to shout at new aurors a lot. Maybe he should have let Scamander do it, but Credence had fixated on Graves. Besides, the man still had a life. And even the unpeopled wastes of Australia had to be better than being locked in here forever. 

By Willard's ghost, it already felt like forever. Graves almost resented the cool, comfortably furnished dormitory for not still being the baking Arizona desert with its blazing, if illusory, sun glaring blindingly overhead. He'd been to Arizona before; there were worse places.

Scamander, although he was free to come and go, seemed to be feeling just as constricted by his cramped shared cabin above and the No-Majs crowding the ship's deck. While he came down regularly to help teach Credence, Graves noticed that the periods of time he spent alone in the back reaches of the case were growing longer and longer. 

For himself, Graves set his jaw and endured. The key was to keep himself busy. He'd driven any number of Healers to distraction by ignoring their orders to rest after injuries; but honestly, lying around doing nothing was more stressful than a few twinges while he worked. And Graves had seen more than enough of the inside of his own head lately. 

_"Please. Please wake up. No, no—please. Wake up."_

"—aves. Mister Graves?" 

Credence's voice broke through his reverie. Graves wrenched his gaze up from where it had rested unseeing on an unfinished line to the concerned look on Credence's face. 

"Just lost in a thought. What were you saying?" 

Credence didn't seem entirely convinced, but he did Graves the same courtesy Graves showed him and didn't ask about it. "The instructions for this spell don't make sense." 

Graves shifted his chair around the table so he could peer over Credence's shoulder. A long, pale finger pointed to the problematic line. 

"See? And it's not defined anywhere." 

"Ah. That's a Transfiguration term. Because it works by transfiguring the nature of the object, not the object itself." Which led to a distracting conversation about the exact differentiation between the categories of spells, made somewhat frustrating by the fact it was limited by Scamander's absence strictly to theory.

The next day, Scamander approached Graves diffidently and asked if he'd review his manuscript. "Only, it's due quite soon on my return, and I was supposed to be working on it all this time." 

Graves raked him with a searching look, but Scamander just twitched the sheaf of papers at him and continued to not meet his eyes. It did occur to Graves to wonder if Credence had put him up to this. That was more subtlety, not to mention initiative, than he'd expected from the boy. Graves was almost impressed enough not to be irritated. 

Almost. He took the manuscript anyway, thumbing through it in reflexive curiosity. 

"Probably don't have to tell you not to go easy." 

Graves felt his lips twitch. "Probably not." 

Scamander was wringing his hands. "Just—let me know if you have any questions." 

If it had been Credence, it was a good sign. Graves didn't abandon his testimony, but he did make a point, the next time they sat down together at the little table, of taking out Scamander's manuscript instead. Credence glanced at it once, then returned his attention to his Charms reading. They didn't discuss anything except magic. 

After that, Graves was careful only to work on the account when Credence was elsewhere. Part of him wanted to ask the boy what Grindelwald had done with his face. Kowalski had told them the end of the story. Goldstein and Scamander had been more circumspect. But there were some things only Credence knew. 

Credence was walking too close to the edge of some internal precipice, though. You could see it in the way he attacked his new studies. He was trying to crowd out all of the doubts and fears pressing in on him, pretending that he knew how everything was going to turn out when no one could be sure. 

The quill jerked across the page, leaving blotches of ink behind. Graves' hand was shaking. _You will not fall apart,_ he told himself. _You will not surrender._

Graves looked at the concise, logical accounting he'd constructed, and it felt like a lie. Savagely, he ripped the ink off of the parchment and started over.


	5. Chapter 5

By the time they arrived in Australia, Credence was just starting to really believe Graves, to trust in his commitment and sincerity. Their new reality was strange enough for Graves, who had grown up with magic like he had the sun. In the past few weeks, there was nothing in Credence's life that hadn't changed. 

"You mean it's not winter down here?" Credence asked, a puzzled line between his eyebrows. 

"It's midsummer in Sydney," Graves said, finishing laying out their clothes. 

Credence at least seemed used to being told what to wear. He'd tried to object at first on the grounds that the contents of Graves' wardrobe were all too fine for him (and likely too lavish for his mother's sensibilities). Graves had pointed out that it was all they had to work with. 

Credence fingered the silk of the lighter summer dress shirt, then went to wash up. Instead of a bucket on a pole, Scamander's washroom was a small enchanted waterfall, where you had to dodge all sorts of aquatic pests. Graves had already taken his turn at it this morning, for what was hopefully the last time. 

Shrugging out of his favourite deep blue brocade dressing gown and draping it carefully over the back of a chair, Graves sat to pull on the peach and cream argyle socks that went with the pinstripe cream suit. His shirt was silk with a subtle peach stripe appropriate to the season. 

The brown leather suspenders matched the ones holding up his socks. He covered them with a black silk undervest. The lapels peeking out would add a note of seriousness to the ensemble. Buttoning the suit vest over it, Graves grimaced for the hundredth time over his missing pocket watch. It had been his grandfather's. He missed it almost as much as the wand; Vivian's wand. That bastard Grindelwald had probably been carrying them both. 

Graves draped the tie he'd chosen, black and cream diagonal stripes with matching pocket square, over his neck and bent to lace up his white nubucks and arrange his spats. Just because the No-Maj criminal element was subverting them was no reason to let the standards go.

Credence returned, shaved and fresh. Graves humbly allowed the boy to knot his tie, which he did with an expression of intense concentration. His mother had punished errors. 

"Thank you," Graves said, trying to catch Credence's eye once he'd finished, unsuccessfully today. 

Letting it go, Graves affixed the collar bar to his shirt and pin to his tie, gold and obsidian to match his cufflinks. He'd liked attached collars on his shirts for years, since they were less likely to be disarranged during the course of his more active duties. 

The suit he'd laid out for Credence was a light, brushed grey. He'd only included one vest in deference to Credence's simpler tastes. The shirt had a lavender stripe that closely matched the colour of the tie with its coin-patterned texture and was picked up again by the geometrically patterned socks. His shoes were unusual grey and white wingtip oxfords, which Graves had been especially proud of turning up. A wizard was allowed to have a little extra style, after all. All the trappings of normality. 

After Graves shrugged into his own jacket, he took out the silver and amethyst cuff links, tie pin, and collar bar he'd decided on and fixed them in place. With that ratty little niffler scurrying around, you didn't dare leave anything lying out. Graves paused to smooth a hand over Credence's neat hair fondly, settling him. 

A thump and rattle announced Scamander's approach. Credence turned to hastily slip his suit jacket on. 

"Good morning. How's everyone down here?" 

Graves sometimes had the sense that Scamander had started to look at them as another pair of exotic creatures he'd taken in until he could find a suitable opportunity to release them back into the wild. 

"Ready to get out of here," Graves answered honestly. 

"I know what you mean; got stuck in here a month myself one time," Scamander admitted, to no surprise at all from Graves. "Much more careful about the latches now." 

Credence looked somewhat daunted, not for the same reason as Graves, who would at this point like nothing so much as to never be shut in anywhere ever again in his life, although if Australia was as much like Arizona as he thought, that wasn't going to be a problem from now on. They hadn't made it out of the case very often on this leg. To distract himself, he turned to his own open suitcase, which unfolded into a standing closet with a rank of drawers on one side, and got to packing the last of his things. 

"When do we land?" Credence ventured to ask. 

"We're already in sight of port. I'll let you know once we're through customs. Bit inconvenient, muggle travel, but better than bruising your posterior with a broomstick for weeks on end with nowhere to touch down." 

"Wait, witches don't actually fly on broomsticks, do they?" 

"Well, of course. Wizards and witches," Scamander said. "Very practical, and quite a bit faster than non-magical options for shorter trips. Shorter than this, anyway." 

"Don't people see?" 

"Oh, well, you can only fly at night, of course," allowed Scamander. 

"Floo powder and apparition are less conspicuous, but the international Floo network is unreliable, and portkeys get touchier the longer the distance you're covering," Graves added. 

"I've apparated before. That's what he called it, when he'd appear and disappear. He took me with him, sometimes." 

No need to ask which _he_ Credence meant. It occurred to Graves that there were questions he hadn't been asking about Grindelwald's treatment of the boy that maybe he should. 

"Apparition has its limits, too," Graves explained. "You have to be familiar with your destination, and it's more difficult the longer the distance. I never could have made it from England to Australia in one shot." 

"New York to England?" Scamander asked curiously. 

"Now that I've have a chance to recover, probably." 

"Carrying someone else?" 

"I wouldn't try it unless I had to," Graves replied judiciously. 

"Cor," Scamander breathed reverentially. "No wonder he snuck up on you from behind. I bet you don't often get beat in a fair fight." 

"There's no such thing as a fair fight," Graves said. He was a powerful wizard, but power wasn't everything. There was always someone—or something—smarter or more powerful. You couldn't account for everything. In Graves' experience, it was the unexpected that took you down. 

Distantly, a horn sounded overhead. Scamander glanced upwards guiltily. 

"Well, that's my cue, I think. And don't let my niffler sneak out; he's caused enough mischief." 

"Before you go." Graves picked up an envelope from the table and handed it to Scamander. It was thick and felt disproportionately heavy in his hand. 

"I'll post it on the way back. From Egypt, maybe. Mid-East's on the way to lots of places." 

Graves nodded and—let go. It felt odd, but there was still a weight on his shoulders and a knot in his gut.

Somehow, the next hour seemed to stretch longer than all the previous weeks of travel. Graves would—no, actually, he wouldn't be the first to admit he'd needed a rest, but it had done him good. Then they'd reached England. Despite his best efforts to occupy himself, Graves was still more than a little stir-crazy. 

Credence rose to intercept the niffler, already halfway to the exit. It was a damned persistent creature, but it had enough magical sensibility for the unsettled aura around Credence to spook it. Graves paced, stopping every once in a while to let the spiked, dog-sized beetles trundle past rolling oddly-shaped balls of dung. 

After what seemed like an eternity, a rhythmic series of raps sounded on the case's top to give them a head's up before it opened. Graves went over to stand by Credence, who was peering upwards nervously. 

Graves clapped him reassuringly on the shoulder. "Here, don't forget this." 

"What is it?" Credence accepted the roll of closely-woven white straw, turning it over in his hands. 

"Summer hat." Although it looked like they were inside somewhere. 

Credence tucked the rolled hat into an inner pocket as Graves started climbing up out of the case, momentarily distracted from his nerves. Graves shot up the steep wooden steps as quickly as he could without stumbling. 

They were in what looked like the back room of a shop, lit by glowing crystals instead of candles or electric. Workshop, Graves corrected himself. There were stocks of magical substances as well as benches and racks of tools. Crates and bundles were stacked up against one wall. The others were lined with uncommonly beautiful shelves, carved, inlaid, and gleaming, and some unusually-shaped tables. 

Graves could see why the owner didn't risk an open flame. So much wood, and parchment scattered all over the place like tinder. Sticks dangled from the ceiling—Graves caught his breath. Wands and wand-blanks, curing. _A wand-maker's workshop._

Scamander must have had some pull with this one; most wand-makers were downright secretive about their craft. Secretive, reclusive, eccentric...they interacted with magic in a way that few did. 

"It's all right," Graves told Credence, leaning back over the open case to gesture for him to follow. 

Tentatively, Credence emerged into the room. Graves offered a hand to help him out of the case. Then he turned to Scamander and the wand-maker, keeping a hand on Credence's shoulder. 

"Would you like to introduce us?" Graves prompted. 

"Oh! Right, yes." Scamander pivoted between them and the wand-maker. "This is Ollie. Ollie, these are the friends I was telling you about." 

Ollie was a rail-thin woman in a loose blouse that left her wire-muscled forearms bare and a skirt with tiers of ruffles down over her knees. A colourful scarf, its ends trailing down over one shoulder, held back an unruly mass of curls. The fine hairs were a true platinum blonde, as opposed to Picquery's carefully-coiffed dye job. Her skin was astonishingly dark in contrast, like cream poured over pumpernickel bread. Her eyes were an eerie silver that somehow gave the impression that she wasn't looking at the same world you were. 

"Percival Graves. A pleasure to meet you." Graves proffered his hand. "This is Credence Barebone." 

Ollie took his hand without hesitation, turning it palm-up and tracing the lines and mounts like a palmist. Her thin fingers were dry and rough with work. 

Graves' were hardly any better. The best he'd been able to do since his escape was to trim the nails. He rarely wore gloves because they affected his grip, so his hand was bare under the wandmaker's scrutiny. 

"One at a time, please. Oh, d'you do wandless, too? Did you come here for lessons? Or a cabinet, I have some nice enchanted ones. I'm sorry, I just assumed." 

Graves was slightly taken aback but covered his surprise. "That sounds interesting, but I only want a wand today." 

He'd studied what he could of wandless magic, but there were few true practitioners in America, mostly Indians in the west. If Ollie was offering, that was an offer Graves would like to take her up on. But Credence first. While the boy was coming along, Graves had barely even started with him yet. They both had to survive those lessons first. 

"I can see why. You've been working with someone else's for quite some time." 

Graves stiffened. His companions looked at him curiously, but he declined to explain his overreaction to this seemingly innocuous remark. 

Ollie pursed her lips. "Well, let them have a look. And if you don't find a good fit, I had some spectacular dreams last month I haven't had a chance to use yet." 

More than a little unsettled and not liking it, Graves approached the forest of wands overhead. They were actually hanging from the rafters, not simply levitated into place; and as he neared, Graves noticed braided and paint-daubed leather cords dangling interspersed with them. The air seemed to hum around the wands. Nearly alive, so many of them together created a magical charge. 

"Don't worry, this lot is almost all very well behaved. And I have them tied up," Ollie added, which combined for something less than the reassuring effect she'd intended. 

Skin prickling, Graves walked slowly underneath the arsenal of wands. The tips were about six inches above head-height, out of his face but still within easy reach. 

This was nothing like how getting a wand had been before. Graves's first wand, acquired at Ilvermorny following his sorting, had been destroyed early in his career as an auror. He hadn't gotten the last one from a shop, but he'd had it for nearly twenty years. Getting a new wand almost felt like a betrayal. 

These wands were different, too. Their shapes were organically asymmetrical, although a few were covered in detailed carvings. From the heady scent of oil in the air, they weren't even varnished. 

The wands swayed overhead. They almost whispered together, some seeming to track him, like dogs lifting their muzzles to sniff at you as you walked by. Graves let the current of something, a feeling that prickled at the base of his skull, draw him on. 

The sight of a wand pointing straight at his heart sent an automatic spike of adrenaline through him. While Graves stood catching his breath and his suddenly wavering composure, Ollie walked over to see. 

"Yes, that's very definite," she said, observing the wand being drawn to him as through magnetised. 

With a circling gesture of one hand, Ollie released the tie binding the wand as she grasped it firmly with the other. She turned and handed it to Graves. 

"I usually do wandless in here," she explained. "Fewer personality conflicts. There you are. Fir, thirteen and a half inches, slightly springy. I matched it with that core because they say fir is a survivor's wand." 

If Graves had been less used to magic, the aptness might have unsettled him. He closed his fingers around the handle cautiously. 

It fit his hand like it had been made for him. Not the straight, clean lines of Vivian's wand, elegant and darkly functional. The reddish-brown wood's curves were graceful in spite of their asymmetry, smooth against his fingers, and with a burl of a knot for his thumb to worry. There was something fitting about the starkness of it, stripped of bark, unshaped, unfinished. 

Marshalling his focus, Graves used the tip to trace circles in the air. _Let's see what you can do._ He didn't believe in starting soft. If there were going to be problems, he wanted to know about them. Despite everything, Graves didn't have to search for a happy memory; and for a precious moment, his heart eased. 

A pearlescent falcon shot unexpectedly out of the tip of the wand and swooped around the room, setting the wood blanks to clacking as it brushed by and ruffling the scattered sheets of parchment. 

Ollie clapped her hands in delight. Graves tried to conceal his surprise. His patronus had always been a panther. Big, strong, intimidating. The change slapped him in the face with a lot of questions he'd been working very hard to avoid. 

Still, it had come out of the wand. Not that it would ward off much of anything looking so transparent, but it was a decent start. On the whole, Graves was satisfied. "Yes, I think that will work nicely." 

Scamander was looking at him thoughtfully. It was about the first real spellwork he'd seen Graves do. Graves quirked an eyebrow at him but said nothing. 

" _Now_ I'll look at yours," Ollie said, turning to Credence. 

Credence started, jerked out of his enraptured spectatorhood. Ollie reached to take his hand like she had Graves', but he flinched back. 

"No, it's all right, Credence," Scamander reassured him. 

Graves touched him gently on the shoulder. "It's okay. No one here's going to hurt you." 

The thing about caning someone on the hand was that a small woman could manage enough force to make it hurt without exerting herself too much. Then there was the added mental effect of having to keep your hand out there while it was happening. It was different than being thrashed. A woman could thrash a child easily enough, but a No-Maj of the Barebone woman's size couldn't have overpowered the larger Credence. He had to be docile. 

"It's okay," Graves repeated. "I'll be right here the whole time." 

Credence gave a short, jerky nod of his head, inhaling deeply, then exhaling. Graves rubbed his back briefly. 

He stayed close as Credence extended his hand for Ollie to examine. He was hunching again, sneaking wary peeks at her up under his brows. 

Too much, too fast? But they needed wands before they could do anything else. And Graves did like to know about his problems up front. 

"First wand. Well, now. This is an increasingly interesting story you're not telling me, Newt," Ollie said aside. "A pair of tricky fits." 

"You really make all of these?" Credence asked, looking away while Ollie examined his palm and long fingers, trying to distract himself. There wasn't much real scarring; but after his own experience, Graves wouldn't place bets on what those silver eyes could see. 

"Been the family business since Roman days," Ollie told him. "My mum was Gormlaith Ollivander." 

"Gormlaith the—" Graves cut himself off. 

"Gormless?" Ollie finished for him, glancing up to give him a wry look. "Yeah, people called her that. She used to tell us that she went out wandering in the outback after she came to the Antipodes—she still called this the Antipodes—and one night, a man came to her in her dreams. His eyes were starry fires, and his hair was wild, his skin dark like the night. Nine months later, I was born." 

Credence was listening raptly, barely even noticing what Ollie was doing with his hand. 

"Really?" Scamander asked. 

"'Course not. Father's an Anangu shaman. Mum's mum was a Lovegood, and they're all a little vague," Ollie editorialised, seemingly unconscious of the implications. "Father's people do believe a lot in dreams, though." She continued, musingly, "She was the whitest White my father had ever seen. He said she was the colour of the sky around the desert sun. She had the most fantastic hat collection, but she was always going outside without one. She'd burn as red as the rocks." 

"I've heard of her," Graves said, fingering his new wand a bit more thoughtfully. "The wands she made have a reputation." 

"Only some of them," Ollie said. "Most were fairly normal, although she did experiment a lot with cores. I always use the same one." 

Tugging on Credence's hand, Ollie led him over to the wands. "Now, let's see what we have for you." 

With a hesitant look back over his shoulder at Graves, Credence stepped forward. The wands rattled, chattering together over his head. 

Credence looked uncertain but kept going. He scanned the waving forest of wands overhead, looking for one that pointed to him like the wand that had chosen Graves. 

Credence didn't stop until he'd reached the far back corner. Slowly, entranced, he raised his arm. 

Ollie ducked in to see. Her back was to Graves, but the set of her shoulders registered surprise. 

"He who has furthest to travel will go fastest with willow," Ollie said in a strange tone. "I never expected to find a match for that wand, but the dream was too powerful not to use." 

She took it down with reverence and handed it to Credence. The boy cradled it carefully in his hands. When he turned around, Graves could see that it was a thing of beauty. Not just willow, but diamond willow. Its hue was even redder than the wand Graves held, with hints of pale sapwood left to highlight the spectacular flaring impressions. 

"What—what do I do now?" Credence asked. 

"Give it a wave," Graves told him. 

"I'd be very surprised if a bird came flying out," Scamander added encouragingly. 

With a look of intense concentration on his face, Credence took a grip on the handle of his wand—Graves made a note to correct that later—and swept it through the air. It shot a blinding trail of multi-coloured sparks, the unfocussed magic bursting out through this new channel with so much vigour Graves was a little afraid they actually _were_ going to set the workshop on fire. 

Credence started, almost dropping the wand. Graves took in his expression and immediately crossed the workshop's small clear area to him. He ventured a touch on Credence's shoulder and felt the trembling. 

Quickly, Graves shifted to screen Credence's view of the others with his body. Long habit had him tucking the new wand into his jacket's inner pocket to free his hands. He took Credence's fist, curled around the wand that had chosen him, in both of them. 

They had had a couple scares on the way down. It was hardly a surprise. Graves was astonished every time Credence fought it back. What made the difference? Was it his power? Or the iron will that had created this dark cloud in the first place? 

Now was not the time for speculation. Despite the suit and pomade, Credence was still the same person he'd been in Manhattan, hurt, frightened, and angry, on the verge of flying apart at the seams. Being an auror had given Graves a wide exposure to human—and sometimes non-human—nature. A lifetime's worth of insult and injury couldn't be erased in a few weeks. 

Credence was the one who knew how to do this. Graves couldn't push him back together. It was frustrating, but no spell he knew would reverse the transformation. He didn't think even stunning the boy would really work against something that arose from the subconscious. 

"You're fine, Credence. You're going to be fine," Graves reassured him in low, soothing tones. 

Contact between them seemed to help Credence calm down, anchoring him physically. Graves stepped in, raising their hands to the level of his heart, careful of where the wand was pointing. Darkness flickered around Credence like a demonic halo. Graves could feel the inky shadow licking over their joined hands, chilling in every sense of the word. The air around them was suddenly cool and not the oppressive heat of Australia's midsummer. 

"Stay with me," he whispered. 

Credence sobbed a breath, which was followed by a long exhalation as he fought to control his breathing. He swayed in closer to Graves until his bowed head was resting on his shoulder, and his free hand clutched at Graves' sleeve. 

He cupped the back of Credence's neck, still murmuring words so tender he hadn't known they were in him. His face was cold like a February stakeout. 

Eventually, the stinging cold receded. Graves didn't let go until he felt Credence relax fractionally, the battle won for now. He clasped Credence's hand again briefly between both of his as they drew apart. Credence gave him a tiny nod despite the bloodless pallor of his already pale skin, darting a quick glance up to his face and then away. 

"Crikey. None of my wands has ever done that before." 

Blandly, Graves settled up with Ollie. From the look on her face, she knew something fishy was going on; but that had been obvious since they stepped out of Scamander's case. He had no choice except to trust that Scamander was right to trust her. 

"I was planning on waiting until after dark and riding out a ways if I could get a broom, but it sounds like you might be able to make a portkey. We need to go someplace where there aren't any people, your mother's people _or_ your father's people." 

"I'm starting to see that, yeah," Ollie said. 

"Can you have one ready for tonight?" 

"I'll get the man to do it. My husband," Ollied glossed at his inquiring look. 

"I appreciate it." Graves turned to Credence. "We still need provisions, shelter. What do you say? Are you up to coming along, or would you rather wait inside?" 

Credence's colour was improving, and he wasn't visibly shaking anymore. He _was_ handling his wand like he was afraid it might shock him. Graves forbore to tell him that was mostly only a danger with laurel wands. 

"We're—we're not going to be coming back for a while, are we? I'd like to see it," Credence said, drawing himself up a little bit more. 

"Okay," Graves said easily. He wouldn't have offered if he wasn't prepared for Credence to say yes; that was something you figured out early running herd on headstrong aurors. _Not to mention being one._ "Put that away then. There's a pocket for it inside you jacket." Graves gestured. 

Credence looked at the wand he was still holding like he was surprised to see it there. Graves and Scamander exchanged a look. Scamander answered the tilt of Graves' head with a shrug. 

"Best get going, then. Can't have the two of you getting lost. New York's no Sydney, after all," he said with a sly sideways smirk. 

"I'm sure it isn't," Graves said dryly. 

He reached into his own inner pocket, spelled to lie flat no matter what he put in it. "Don't forget your hat, Credence." 

Graves tapped his own with his new wand, and it sprang back to its normal state. The boater Scamander produced looked squashed, as though it had been run over in the dirt at some point in the past; there was also a large bite taken out of the brim on one side. It was woven from coarser straw, the hatband a faded and splotchy mustard. 

The one Graves had loaned Credence was shaped more like a homburg. Graves took a moment as he restored the hat for him to charm the hat band to a grey and lavender stripe that matched his borrowed suit. After a moment's consideration, he did refrain from transfiguring a feather to stick in it. It was _very_ good to have a wand again. The band on Graves' own panama became a summery peach. 

"All set?" Scamander asked in mild amusement. 

Graves returned him a cool look. In his opinion, magic meant no wizard had an excuse to look shabby. 

Ollie led them out of the workroom and through to an apparently non-magical furniture shop. A man of middle years with an olive complexion and curly silver-threaded black hair—Ollie's husband?—was minding it. He nodded to her as they passed, then returned his attention to the block he was whittling. 

In Australia, there was plenty of space for wizards to keep apart from No-Majs, but there weren't enough resources. From what Scamander said, wizards here shared the permissive English attitude about coexistence with them. In general, magical Australia still had an unsettled reputation, with what rules there were only sporadically enforced. It was a good place to disappear. 

"Oh," Credence said in surprise as they stepped outside and he donned his hat. 

"Cooling charm?" Scamander guessed. "Yes, it's nice, isn't it?" 

"It's only practical," Graves said. 

"Practical," Credence marvelled, shaking his head. 

"Sure. Wizards are very practical," Scamander told him lightly. 

Graves bit his tongue, withholding comment. 

Sydney was definitely not Manhattan. There were at least paved streets, though, with trams rattling along them. The summer sun beamed down brightly on them, and Graves found himself unexpectedly perturbed by the sudden transmutation of fall to summer. It felt like he'd been held prisoner for half a year, not two months. 

Following Scamander, who had been here before and almost knew his way around, they managed to collect everything they'd need for at least a month's stay out in the Outback. Magic would make survival possible where No-Majs wouldn't stand a chance. 

Graves was counting on it. He was impatient to get out of this city, away from fragile buildings and vulnerable crowds. 

The sun was still poised above the horizon by the time the shops closed, the days summer-long. Scamander accompanied them to Ollie's back room, where she had the promised portkey waiting. 

"The graphorns are going to miss you," Scamander told him. 

Graves was unable to suppress a grimace. Scamander pursed his lips against a smile, his eyes twinkling. 

"Thank you," Credence told him, looking up to meet his eyes for a moment. "I hope I'll see you again, someday." 

Scamander clasped his shoulder warmly. "Nothing would please me more. Take care of yourselves, both of you. And good luck." 

"Expect us back in about a month for more supplies," Graves told Ollie. "Thanks for letting us impose on your hospitality." 

"Good luck with...whatever it is you're about." Ollie stared at them with those disconcerting eyes. It was obvious that she trusted Scamander more not to be mixed up in sinister dark magic than them in particular. 

"Brace yourself," Graves warned Credence. "Portkeys aren't any more comfortable than apparating." 

Ollie's portkey was a simple piece of sanded wood, maybe a wand blank that hadn't made the cut, just long enough for Graves and Credence each to grab an end. Graves extended his hand and gestured, levitating it to hover in the air between them. 

"Whatever you do, don't let go," he warned. 

"Don't worry," Credence said, looking across at him, "I'm good at holding on." 

"On three. One…two… _three_!" 

Graves' fingers closed around the smooth wood and locked there. His stomach jerked like someone had set a hook in his guts, and the world disappeared around him in a kaleidoscopic whirl of colour. The packages containing their supplies banged against his legs in the wind of their passage. 

Graves' feet slammed into the ground hard enough to buckle his legs. Before he could find his balance, Credence pitched into him, wrapping his lanky arms around him with desperate force and knocking him to his knees. 

Graves dropped the packages and hugged the boy back, momentarily nonplussed. Credence was sucking in huge, rasping breaths, his face buried in Graves' neck. Graves stroked gently over his back and hair, making soothing noises. 

"Shh, whoa there. I warned you about portkeys. Do you feel sick? You're fine. You're going to be fine. We're here; we—" Graves finally looked up. The sky stretched above him, blue and endless, obscured by only the thinnest gauzy curtain of clouds. The horizon opened out on all sides, almost as unbounded as at sea. Desert scrubland, completely empty, unrolled to meet it. Unbidden, Graves thought of the falcon. 

"Mister Graves?" Credence sat up a little. 

"We made it." Graves' voice sounded strangely small in his own ears. 

Tentatively, Credence reached up to touch his face. Tears, Graves realised. He was crying.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I will offer you_  
>  _Pearls of rain_  
>  _That come from a place_  
>  _Where rain never falls_  
>  _I will claw in the dirt_  
>  _To my death and beyond_  
>  _To cover you all In gold and in light_  
>  —Ne me quitte pas

"Can you tell me what it was? Back in the shop?" Graves asked later. 

After they had both pulled themselves together, they'd had to work to get a camp set up before nightfall. It was a good thing everything was magical, because Graves had never done this before. He didn't know how far Ollie had sent them, but the sun was higher in the sky here. It had given them a bit more room to work with. 

Graves had disillusioned their tent to hide it from aerial searches, magical and otherwise, and set other wards around their camp, getting a feel for his new wand. The tent came with charms to insulate it from the temperature outside; but they were sitting in front of it in chairs they'd dragged out from the living area, looking at a sunset over a crackling fire. 

Credence didn't say anything immediately. One of the times, it had been a dream that made Credence realise he didn't know what had happened to his adopted sister, the girl Modesty. That had been on the voyage to England. Goldstein had reported, looking stricken, that no one had seen the girl since. 

Credence spoke slowly. "I felt it. When I did that magic with the wand, I could feel it moving inside of me, like when it comes out." 

What made an Obscurus was fear of your own magic. Learning now to use it deliberately was a huge turnaround. 

"What—I mean, what if I can't ever do magic without letting it out?" Credence's voice came out softly. It was a question he'd asked before, and Graves still didn't have an answer. 

"I don't know. But we'll try and figure it out. That's why we came all the way out here. It doesn't matter if it gets out sometimes, as long as you come back. As long as you come back to me, I'll be here," Graves promised. 

 

They had a better kitchen here than in Scamander's case. Graves was only a passable cook, but between them he and Credence managed. As a rule, Graves didn't like having other people in his space, so he'd learned to make do on his own over the years. 

That was one of the biggest adjustments. Not to sharing quarters so closely with someone else, but to not minding very much. Graves decided ruefully that being tortured in the dark for two months probably had something to do with it. 

Actually teaching Credence to do magic was touchy, demanding, dangerous business, which suited Graves. He was used to long hours and risky work. He had used to be better at staying emotionally detached, though. How had he managed before? He tried to remember the trick of it. More worrying was the question of whether he _could_ do what Credence needed without becoming emotionally involved. It seemed all too likely that that ship had already sailed. 

"Hold your wand like this." Graves demonstrated. "Good; better. I've never seen anything like these wands. They almost help you find the right grip. It's a totally different style. How does it feel?" 

"...Good?" Credence hazarded. 

Graves' lips twitched. "When you get it right, it's easier to make the different wand movements. Plus you're less likely to drop it." 

"Dropping your wand is bad," Credence affirmed. 

"Well, it's not a good idea in a fight. And you can break them, or make them angry. Okay, try moving it like this. Don't do anything yet; just move the wand." 

Obediently, Credence mimicked the movement of his hand. Graves did it again, watching his performance closely and correcting him until he was satisfied. 

"Good. You won't use that one much, but it always helps me settle my grip on the handle." 

Credence glanced up at him sharply. Graves shrugged. 

It might have helped if Graves were a better teacher. He was used to dunderheaded young aurors, who needed to be handled firmly and intimidated into toeing the line. But Credence had had more than enough firm handling. 

Of course, he didn't act the way new aurors did—namely reckless, headstrong, and convinced they knew best no matter what. Graves still found himself losing his patience sometimes. 

"Don't hunch over like that," he finally snapped "What's the matter? For Salem's sake, I don't care if you're taller than I am." 

Credence flinched automatically, which only made Graves more frustrated. He made an effort to straighten up, not quite looking Graves in the eye. 

"I'm sorry. I don't realise I'm doing it. I'll stop." 

Graves rubbed his face. "I wish you would. I wish you would relax more; it can't be helping." 

Credence's face grew troubled. He still avoided eye-contact most of the time. It was more than just being browbeaten—and outright beaten—by that dreadful Barebone woman. Making any connexion entailed a breach of the walls Credence had put up around the thing inside him. He couldn't even _look_ at anyone for fear of focussing that power on them. Whenever Graves met his eyes, he could see the maelstrom seething inside. He wondered how Grindelwald had missed it. Was it that much closer to the surface now? 

That inward-focussed control had been enough to keep Credence alive this long, barely. But it hadn't kept the Obscurus from tearing half of Manhattan apart. With an eye towards general safety, Graves hadn't been willing to rock the boat before now. That time had passed. If Credence was going to survive, they had to work out something else. He couldn't go through life afraid of everything, including himself. 

Graves tried another tactic. "What do you usually do to relax?" 

Credence looked blank, then turned glum. "I've always felt it, the thing inside me. I knew I had to keep it in, but I didn't know what would happen if it got out. It was worse than I ever imagined." 

_So much for that idea._

"What about you?" Credence asked unexpectedly. 

"Me?" 

"What do _you_ do to relax?" 

Graves paused, contemplating the fact that he didn't really relax much more than Credence, and with comparatively less excuse. "Fall asleep." 

That startled an unexpected laugh out of Credence. He covered his mouth sheepishly. 

"There's an idea. I wish I knew more jokes." Graves thought. Most of what he read was for work. He had a radio so he could listen to the news. Sometimes he'd take files out to a coffee house or something when his office walls started closing in around him. "I suppose I had friends." Lovers were pretty rare; and anyway, they were trying to calm Credence _down_. 

A wistful expression crossed the boy's face. "What do you do with friends? Not that there _is_ much to do out here." 

They went to dinner, and sometimes concerts or the theatre. Never too often, especially since his promotion; Graves was famous by now for keeping even his friends at a distance. Still, it was nice to have some human contact outside the job from time to time. Had Credence been too cowed or too beset to grab even that much for himself? _Salem._

"It's more about the company. For me, anyway. And just...doing something that isn't work." Graves thought some more. "Do you play chess? You've got a disciplined mind; you might be good at it." It might be a good distraction. Although chess was a violent game. He'd have to keep working on it. 

Once or twice a week, on nights when it was clear, they stayed up late for Astronomy lessons. Graves had managed to turn up star charts, since he'd never studied the sky in the southern hemisphere either. 

Even Ilvermorny didn't have skies like this. A blazing band of light arced across the night like a gash in a velvet bag of gemstones. It had been almost as spectacular at sea, but here there weren't even ship lights to compete with. Graves would almost rather sleep on the ground outside than on the bed in the tent, but he could hardly ask Credence to. 

For once, Credence seemed to forget himself completely looking up at them. Graves barely had the heart to make him use the telescope and pen his charts, although when he found Neptune for the first time and saw it as a blue globe instead of a point of light, he stared at it until it crossed out of the telescope's field of view. 

"It's another whole new world you've shown me." 

Graves shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to respond. Credence looked over at him, illuminated only by the starlight and one flickering candle. 

Graves rested a hand on his shoulder, not quite as bony as it had been two months ago under the velvet of his borrowed dressing gown, and leaned in to look at the star charts. "Saturn will be coming up soon, east-south-east." 

Credence had started out surprised whenever Graves or Newt needed to consult a reference or admitted they didn't know something. It was typical of some types of personality that they needed to feel like they had all the answers. They had to control everything because the unknown scared them, and they usually reacted badly whenever anyone reminded them about it. 

It wasn't hard to see why the Barebone woman had fixated with such violent hatred on the amorphous mystery that magic constituted. There were things about magic even wizards didn't understand. The idea that the world was subject to forces she couldn't comprehend or control must have been terrifying. 

In some dark emotional alchemy, that fear had been transmuted into anger. But she hadn't been satisfied screeching in the streets; she'd taken her spleen out on Credence, probably the other children, too. There _were_ old scars on his back, likely from when he was smaller; Graves had seen them. 

On the other hand, laying out what you did and didn't know was the basis of good investigation. Besides, Graves' defining trait was his curiosity. Doggedness and curiosity. Not his sparkling personality, unfortunately; but he made up for it with style. 

 

The strain was starting to tell on Credence. When they'd come to Australia, he'd been in good shape, or at least better shape than when they left New York. Not really good, or what you could exactly call normal, but almost...okay. 

Graves thought he was still better than he had been in Manhattan. He was flinching less, and sometimes he even voiced opinions. Hearteningly, he was actually interested in their lessons. He wanted to learn magic so badly. During their travels, he'd seemed to grasp the theory behind the spells well enough, and he had a solid start on potions. 

The problem came when he actually tried to do magic. Even the simplest spells left him straining against the black terror inside him that was bursting to get loose. Graves wished he could figure out a way to get him past this block. It was the frustration that was wearing on him as much as anything, making him increasingly tense and unhappy. 

So far as Graves could tell, the nightmares were only nightmares. For now. Credence's sleep was becoming increasingly restless again. There were nights when Graves had to resort to potions to keep him calm. Ordinarily, he slept curled in on himself with his knees drawn up, face buried in Graves' chest. The Dreamless Sleep rendered him disconcertingly limp and insensate, and the difference was unsettling. 

There were few lovers Graves had shared a bed with for as long as he'd been sleeping with Credence. Most people looked younger in their sleep, but he looked older, the lie ingrained in his body-language no longer masking the maturity of his features. 

When he woke from a nightmare in the middle of the night, he looked even older, as old as anyone ever looked, the infinite age people acquired in war, or alone on the streets. 

"I killed them. I killed her; I killed them all. I killed them all," Credence repeated in a shaking voice. 

"It's okay; it's over now. I've got you," Graves soothed him, holding him in the dark. "It's not your fault." 

"I wish you'd stop saying that. I _am_ responsible. All of it, the buildings torn down and—and people who were killed. I did that," Credence insisted with smeary fierceness. 

"You didn't mean to." On the one hand, pounding the concept of responsibility into thick young skulls was usually a much more arduous task. On the other, letting Credence flatten himself under a crushing burden of guilt or self-hate would be counterproductive. 

"I was hurt and I hurt people back. That was wicked. Magic might not be evil, but I am. I don't deserve everything you've done for me, everything everyone's done." 

Reflexively, Graves tightened his arms around the boy. "Do you really think I'd go to all this trouble if I didn't believe you were worth saving?" 

"How can you?" Credence asked miserably. 

Graves rested his cheek against the top of Credence's head, tired and heartsick. He was cold now, cold and shaking. Fatigue loosened Graves' tongue, or maybe his brains. "How can I not?" 

Credence was barely hanging on. It couldn't last forever. Out under the searing noonday sun, Graves clutched more tightly at Credence's shoulder; but there was nothing to grab hold of. His features melted away as all his hard-fought control unravelled. Credence was literally slipping through his fingers. 

The Obscurus billowed out, enormous and chillingly dark. Graves staggered back, reaching helplessly after it as it climbed roiling into the sky. A pleading cry ripped itself from his throat, unheeded. 

Graves' heart was hammering in his chest. Remembering himself, he let his arm fall and moderated his breathing. Credence's wand had tumbled to the ground. Graves stooped to pick it up, wiping the dust off of it with his handkerchief. Then he sank down into one of the armchairs that they more and more frequently left outside by the fire pit. 

The Obscurus boiled overhead like a storm cloud. Graves hadn't seen a storm in months. They were rare in Australia's blistering summer. The clouds that rolled by overhead seldom dropped any rain. The last storm he knew about was on the voyage here, when Scamander had retreated into the case with them to ride out the heavy seas. 

There wasn't anything for Graves to do but watch, although he couldn't tear his eyes away. The Obscurus' shadow fell cold across him as it lashed out at the burning sky. 

Graves looked on with his heart in his throat, hoping that it wouldn't disappear over the far horizon. He could very easily lose Credence in the desert. At least he'd be able to apparate along line of sight for miles at a time in this flat, red waste; it would give him a chance of keeping up. 

"It'll be good to stretch my legs," Graves told himself, eyes still locked on the sky. "Come on, Credence. Stick with me." 

Then it occurred to him. _He_ couldn't follow Credence, but the falcon could. 

Graves searched inside himself for a happy memory. That was always the problem with this spell. It was hard to feel happy when Credence had become nothing but an open wound. 

He focussed on the sight of Credence bent over the telescope, captivated by the rings of Saturn. The falcon shot up into the sky, a tiny speck against the huge black cloud, swooping around it in an airborne dance. 

When Credence finally returned to himself, it seemed like he'd been waiting for hours. Graves gripped the arms of his chair, all but holding his breath. Like ink being poured back into a bottle, the Obscurus drained back into Credence's small, shaking form. The falcon stooped, plummeting alongside the last of its shadow, fanning its wings at the last second to spread them over the boy in a benediction before finally fading away. 

Graves forced himself to move carefully so as not to startle Credence. Something inside of him unknotted when his hand reaching out made contact with a solid form and not icy vapour. Credence gripped his arms, sagging into him. 

"Welcome back," Graves said. "Here. You dropped this." 

Graves drew Credence's wand from his jacket's inner pocket. Credence's fingers spasmed closed around it convulsively, clutching it to his chest with a sound like a whimper. 

He folded in on himself. His knees buckled; Graves steadied him as he slowly sank to the ground. 

Credence sat curled around his wand, rocking and weeping heartbrokenly. Graves knelt there in the hot red sand, helpless all over again. He didn't know what he'd do if he lost Credence now, after all this. If Credence ripped himself apart trying to hold himself together. Maybe Graves would blow away in the wind, too. 

He stroked Credence's hair and the back of his bowed neck, feeling his shoulders heave with the force of his sobs. Despite this paroxysm of emotion, he remained substantial under Graves' hands. 

He waited for this storm to pass, too. It took a long time. When Credence quieted, Graves coaxed him inside where it was cooler. Unsurprisingly, he'd, knocked his hat off. The pale skin of his face was already pinked as well as blotchy with tears. 

Graves chipped a piece of chocolate off of the brick he'd bought back in New York and conjured a glass of lemonade, then sat next to him on the sofa. He picked up a book he'd started and stared blankly down at it, pretending to read, giving Credence a chance to pull himself together without withdrawing from him. 

"I don't know if I can keep doing this," Credence said into the silence. His voice sounded hollow. 

Graves looked up. "Do you want to stop?" 

Credence's hands tightened around his glass, the ice cubes rattling in the bottom. "No. I won't give up." 

"Then that's your answer. It will be hard, but you did good today." 

"How can you say that?" 

"You came back. You're still alive. No one got hurt," Graves said simply. "That's a successful operation in my books." 

Credence considered things from this new perspective. Graves put a hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you go and wash up? You'll feel better when you're clean." 

Credence looked down at himself. "Oh! Your suit. I'm sorry; I didn't mean to—" 

"Don't worry about it," Graves told him. "That's the least punishment one of my suits has taken, believe me."


	7. Chapter 7

After about a month, Graves had to make the run back into town for supplies. Water he could conjure, but food was a different story, another of magic's manifold quirks. He wanted to check the papers, too, see if Picquery had given up on finding him Stateside and started nagging the rest of the magical world. He wished she'd just let it go for once. The letter containing Graves' testimony against Grindelwald probably wouldn't do much to calm her down, but he still felt a sense of duty towards her and the rest of MACUSA. 

It felt strange leaving Credence behind; but the boy hadn't thought it would be good for him, and Graves couldn't disagree. Even a small city like Sydney would be too noisy and crowded in his current frame of mind. A bit of rest would be much better for him. 

Still, this would be the longest they'd been separated since they left New York. Graves was worried about leaving Credence alone. What if he lost control again? Could he come back on his own? Would he get lost in the desert? 

Graves hid his worry from the boy. It would only upset him, which would be counterproductive. 

"I won't be gone long," Graves promised. "I'll leave you the portkey so you can go to Ollie's shop if you need to. I'll make sure she can find me." 

It was a long way to apparate. Graves had done coast-to-coast back in the States a few times, and _that_ was even longer; but from Sydney to their camp was definitely over a thousand miles. Graves placed his arrival in Ollie's back hallway. Wandmaking was a delicate procedure, and he didn't want to risk interrupting her. 

He surprised Ollie's husband coming out of a different door along the corridor. Graves nodded polite greeting, taking his hat off. 

"Good morning, Mister Sanna. Just passing through." 

"Ollie's in the wood shop," Agapios Sanna told him. He spoke with a Greek accent that had been corrupted by years spent in this country. 

"Don't interrupt her. I'll be back in a few hours." 

Sanna followed Graves into the shop, where a gawky teenage boy whose curly hair was almost the exact same light brown as his skin was dealing with a customer. Graves watched, amused, as Sanna abruptly changed course to supervise the haggling. 

Graves slipped quietly out the door and came to an abrupt halt on the sidewalk. Sydney seemed a lot louder and more crowded after a month in the Outback. 

He masked his reaction by settling his hat back on his head. The cooling charm washed over him, helping him to clear his mind. _Focus_ , Graves told himself. 

He didn't dawdle over his errands. Graves used to love the city. Maybe it was just New York; Sydney certainly wasn't the same. Or maybe Graves had changed more than he realised. All he could think of was getting back to check on Credence. When had it started seeming so unnatural for the boy to be out of arm's reach? Graves found himself shockingly unsteady without him. 

At least he didn't see his face splashed on wanted posters. Graves kept his eyes open for local aurors popping up to apprehend him, too; but it seemed he was at least safe to walk down the street. 

Sanna insisted he stay for lunch. Ollie was coaxed out of the wood shop, and a number of children were assembled in the apartment upstairs. All four of them seemed to be the same age, two boys and two girls, all with the same milk chocolate complexion and unruly hair. Those silver eyes bred true. 

"Ollie found pregnancy too distracting, so she decided to have the children all at once," Sanna explained. 

It reminded Graves a little of family meals growing up, something he hadn't though about in years. Maybe he should have written a letter to his mother, too. Well, Picquery had probably filled her in. Or sent someone to question her about his whereabouts. Graves didn't envy whoever had drawn that assignment. 

With a flick of his wand, Sanna added lunch in a package for him to take back to Credence. Sanna was obviously used to looking after people. Lovegood blood apparently bred true, too. 

"Let me see your wand," Ollie said. 

Graves blinked at her, then silently handed it over. His fingers twitched when he let go; deliberately, he dropped his hand to his side. _Calm down_ , he schooled himself. 

Ollie held the wand up to the light, running her fingers along the grain. Her enormous silver eyes unfocussed, and she smiled a distant smile. 

"Good. I'm glad to hear that. It's always nice to check in." Ollie's eyes came back into focus on Graves' face with spooky accuracy. "And how is Credence working out with his wand?" 

"It's...not working with the wand that's the problem," Graves said guardedly. 

"Well, as long as it's settling in. I do worry about them, you know." 

Graves decided to get out of there before she got any more curious. Ollie was nice enough, but she was hardly the first person he would choose as a confidante. He picked up the case where he'd stowed his morning's purchases and framed his destination in his mind. On the verge of disapparating, he stopped. 

"Out of curiosity, what _do_ you use for cores? I forgot to ask." 

Ollie tilted her head, regarding him unblinkingly. "I use dreams, of course. I told you my father's people believe that dreams are potent magic. He taught us that the world was dreamed into existence." 

Graves thought back. "You said the dream in Credence's wand was too powerful not to use, even though you never expected to sell it." 

"That dream came to me eleven years ago. There was a man in it, or sometimes he was a man, with wild hair and burning eyes. My dreams haven't been the same since." 

 

Apparating back at camp, Graves scanned his surroundings for Credence, tasting the air, alert for any hint of the despairing darkness that would mean the Obscurus had overcome him. A spike of alarm went through him when he spotted a tan-suited figure kneeling on the hard, dusty ground. 

"Credence?" Graves asked, concern in his voice. Carefully, he set down the case and approached the boy. 

"Oh, hello Mister Graves. Welcome back." Credence glanced over his shoulder at him, then returned his attention to the ground. 

He didn't _sound_ upset. Graves crouched down beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder as he leaned in to see what had captured Credence's attention. 

Some subtle tension seemed to leave him at Graves' touch, but he remained focussed. He was watching what looked like a cross between a lizard and a thorn bush while writing in a leather-bound notebook. 

"What's that?" 

"Oh. I was going to ask if you knew." Credence sounded faintly disappointed. 

"Is it magical?" Graves asked. 

"I don't know. Mister Scamander asked me to take notes on whatever I saw." 

"I remember," Graves said. 

"He said he thought most of the animals here were magical, or they wouldn't be able to survive. Magic creatures don't do magic all the time, though. We could try making it upset, except what if it shoots spikes or something? I don't think I want to risk those coming flying at my face." Credence frowned at this dilemma.

"Can't argue with that." 

Back in the tent, Graves got busy arranging the supplies he'd brought back from town in the larder. Credence sat at the small kitchen table eating Sanna's leftovers. His appetite was good today. 

"I picked up your suits, too," Graves told him. "I'm glad we found a wizard tailor. I could charm the pockets, but adding one for your wand would be pushing my limits. About the most I'm good for is mending a ripped seam." 

"You really shouldn't have. I can't pay you back," Credence protested. 

They had already been through this at the tailor's. "Maybe I just don't want to share mine anymore. Or call it a late Christmas present; we missed it while we were travelling." Scamander had smuggled them some of the ship's holiday banquet. They'd only been a few days out, so the food had still been pretty fresh. "The case is yours, too." 

The look Credence directed at the valise suggested he had a personal grievance with it, but he voiced no further protests. Well, what was he supposed to do, let the boy run around stark naked like the natives apparently did? If nothing else, Credence's skin was far too delicate. Graves would tan after he'd burned a time or two, but Credence just switched between a complexion like bone china and an ever redder hue than the Australian desert. It happened so fast Graves had considered charming the boy's hat to his head. 

Credence's expression became thoughtful. "It still seems strange that witches have Christmas, too." 

"It's true, we don't get very excited about religion, generally speaking. Christmas is more of a family gathering." 

"Do you have a family?" Credence was surprised into asking. 

"I have a younger brother, and my mother and most of my sisters are still alive. Ilithyia, my oldest sister, she died in the war." 

"Was she a nurse?" 

Graves was surprised into a bark of laughter. "She was a terror. All of my sisters are far too like our mother. Ilithyia commanded a regiment." 

"A woman? Really?" 

"You probably don't remember, but the President of MACUSA is a woman. She was there in the subway." It seemed like a million years ago. The war seemed like two million, although Graves wasn't looking forward to his dreams tonight now he'd been talking about it. "Mother was head of Magical Law Enforcement for twenty-one years. It's the family business. My brother, Drusus, is the only one of us who broke tradition. I've got two more sisters, and they're both aurors, too." 

"Do they—did they work for you?" asked Credence. 

"I work with Innogen more, or I used to before I got promoted when the last Head was liquefied. Celandine was in D.C. last I heard, wanted to get out from under the family's shadow. I don't know how Grindelwald thought he could survive Christmas dinner with all of them; he must have planned to be finished by then." 

The spectre of Grindelwald blighted the conversation. Graves grimaced by way of apology. It was a subject they usually avoided. Graves spared a moment to wish wholeheartedly that they were keeping him in a dark cell. 

Graves might have lost track of time if it weren't for the astronomy lessons. Strange stars moved slowly across the sky. They sat out watching them more as the hot days grew gradually shorter. The oppressive heat faded with the light. 

Credence was at least learning. He continued to read diligently through Scamander's school books, absorbing and taking notes and even asking questions. Graves was gradually learning not to bark out corrections like he was drilling trainees, and as a result Credence was flinching less when he made mistakes. That was a fear that had come later to Graves, on the heels of bigger mistakes, so he didn't understand it as well. 

Magic was still hard for Credence. A few spells were enough to strain the limits of his control. They had to ration it, balancing progress against the risk to Credence himself. 

Gradually, Graves was seeing an improvement. Although the spells rocked Credence, he could do them. He might be pale and tense immediately afterwards, but later he was quietly suffused with pride and excitement. He certainly practiced his technique more than any ten wizards Graves knew. 

As time passed and it became clear than Credence _could_ do magic, some of the underlying tension seeped out of him. And even though the Obscurus still overtook him sometimes when they pushed too hard, there was no one for it to hurt but Graves; and for whatever reason, it never did more than knock him off his feet. The more times Credence came back, the more confidence he had that he _would_ come back. It was something for him to hold onto, hope instead of fear. 

Happiness suited Credence. Graves still didn't see it on him often enough, but it was there tonight. Credence was bent intently over the notebook where he kept his observations on the sparse Australian wildlife while a record played on the gramophone Graves had brought back on his last trip in to town. He'd looked at it askance when Graves first set it up, but that had only lasted until Graves put on the first record. 

It had stopped Credence in his tracks as though petrified, an expression of wonder approaching rapture on his face. Well, Graves had found a way to get him to relax. He should have thought of it sooner. 

It was a little startling to realise how good it made him feel to see Credence doing so well. Graves felt almost on the verge of relaxing himself, just a little bit. 

Credence glanced up from his work. He'd started parting his hair on the side instead of pomading it, and some of it had fallen into his eyes. He gave Graves an odd look. 

"What?" 

"Nothing. It's just—you're smiling." Credence smiled back. 

Graves rubbed his mouth like he needed tactile confirmation. No reason...not to smile. He forced himself to remove his hand and look back down at his book. 

Despite the initial impression that the desert was unchanging and unrelenting, the seasons did turn. They got rain even less than they saw rainclouds. The first time Graves had seen a dark cloud spitting fitful showers in the distance, he'd seized Credence's hand and apparated them into the middle of the squall. As much as New York had had to offer, Graves hadn't considered its climate to be a selling point before. He'd never thought he'd miss the city's dreary greyness. 

As the months passed, the temperature dropped to something bearable; but the rains stopped altogether. Graves switched to his winter wardrobe, which at least didn't show the ruddy dust as badly. He preferred grey or black or even white and cream to brown, but there were a prudent couple in that colour among the suits he'd had made for Credence. They suited him much better than his old clothes, and not just because of the fit. 

It was night, on the cusp of what passed for winter out here. The fire in the pit outside their tent was built larger now, for warmth instead of just ambiance. Graves and Credence had drawn their chairs up closer to the flames. Credence was wrapped in a dressing gown of rich green that defied the red waste that surrounded them. 

"Did he touch you?" 

A lot of time had passed before Graves felt it was safe to ask the question, although it had been on his mind for a while. Credence didn't shrink away from him; but given how Grindelwald had been presenting himself, that didn't tell him much. Graves had heard the rumours about Grindelwald, and he was inclined to give them weight. He'd had the bastard in his mind, after all. 

There were more reasons than his career that Graves himself had never married. Not that the sort of relationship he was inclined to would have done his career much good, either. Graves' increasingly rare liaisons had all (well, mostly) been fairly discreet. 

The way Grindelwald had reacted to discovering his predilections had been telling in and of itself. Graves still wasn't sure it made it any better that his assaults had all been mental instead of physical. Grindelwald had as much as said that he might have tried seducing Graves under other circumstances, but he'd seemed to think that climbing on top of a defeated captive would have been debasing himself. Nothing left to win. Credence, though, he'd had to manipulate more subtly. 

Credence gave Graves a sharp look, then cut his eyes abruptly away. It was hard to tell in this light, but Graves assumed he was blushing. 

"I—sometimes I think he might have. If he'd known I was the one he was looking for," Credence said at last. He drew his legs up and hugged his knees to his chest, staring fixedly into the fire. "I would have given anything for it then. I'd have gone with him, and he'd have had everything he wanted. But I'm glad I didn't, now. He could be very kind, but he also frightened me. There was a look in his eyes, sometimes..." He risked a glance over at Graves again, searching his face. "The difference between you, it's all in your eyes. You don't frighten me." 

Graves was relieved, and unexpectedly moved. He cleared his throat. "I'm glad." 

Credence offered him a heart-breaking smile. "So am I." 

There were predictable problems in sharing a bed with an attractive, vulnerable young man. Credence slept with his face in Graves' chest but otherwise curled in on himself, which helped sidestep a certain amount of potential morning awkwardness. Since he'd recovered enough for it to become an issue, Graves had been taking care of his own self abuse during his morning shower. But he was willing to bet that any views the Barebone woman had instilled in Credence on the subject would have been anything but encouraging. 

After their conversation, Graves had something new to wonder about. He tried not to, but he couldn't help hearing Credence's words when he closed his eyes at night, holding him in his arms. _I would have given anything for it then._

Credence had understood Graves' question. If he had wanted the imitation, could he ever want— 

It was a dangerous thought. Graves was the only stable thing in Credence's world. The boy was completely dependent on him out here. If he was wrong, then at a stroke he'd transform himself from refuge to threat. Never mind being hurtful, that would be reckless and irresponsible. Credence's life was at stake in this. 

Anyway, Graves had plenty of experience with silent, unrequited pining. It was usually more unrequited than this, frankly. By all rights, that ought to make things easier. 

When Credence returned to him from the sky, his own problems were the last thing on his mind. Graves took him into his arms, white-faced and shivering from the cold. 

"Damn it," Credence said, his voice thready but surprisingly vehement. "I almost had it." 

"You did." 

Graves stopped stroking his hair for a moment and reached into his pocket. He pressed something smooth and round into Credence's hand. Credence cupped it in his palm, blinking down at the object in astonishment. 

"I did." 

Credence fingered the aggie shooter that had started the day as an ordinary pebble from the sandy plain. Silently, he clenched his hand around it again, his breathing evening out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on tumblr as [conditionalriverofabsolutelove](http://conditionalriverofabsolutelove.tumblr.com/), if you want to stop by and say hello :D


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Do not leave me here_  
>  _Instead we must forget_  
>  _We can forget it all_  
>  _Everything that's gone_  
>  _Forget those times_  
>  _We misunderstood_  
>  _And the time we lost_  
>  _Instead discover how_  
>  _To forget those hours_  
>  _That would kill_  
>  _Beating with questions_  
>  _The joyful heart._  
>  _Only do not leave_  
>  —Ne me quitte pas

Animals of any kind were rare out here. There was nothing for them to eat but occasional low humps of grass—or, Graves supposed, each other—but they'd seen more than just small creatures like the spiny lizard Credence had discovered and something that looked like a cross between a possum and a rabbit that mostly scurried around at night. Small groups of shaggy, flightless birds sometimes appeared in the distance. They even saw the Outback's iconic kangaroos bounding across the desolate landscape. Once, Graves could have sworn he spotted what looked like camels. 

What they never saw were humans, magical, non-magical, settlers, or natives. Ollie had known what she was doing when she sent them here, and Graves had set up wards on top of that. 

Graves and Credence were just finishing supper one evening when something scratched at the tent flap. They looked at each other. 

"Maybe it's a kangaroo," Graves said lightly, standing and reaching into his pocket for his wand. 

"Americans? Are you in there?" a voice called from outside. The accent sounded mostly British. It was a man's voice, although not Scamander's. 

"Who are you?" Graves called. He held Credence back with an outstretched arm to keep him away from the tent flap and the line of fire of whoever it was out there. 

"Ngangkali asked me to pop in on you. I'm Ngiyari Ollivander." 

"That must be Ollie. No wonder she goes by her last name," Credence said, although Ollie's married name was actually Sanna. 

Graves drew aside the tent flap with with a gesture, wand still on guard. The man standing outside certainly could have been Ollie's brother. His hair was the same white-blonde with darker highlights, like bleached driftwood; but most telling were his silvery eyes. His complexion was darker—the effects of the sun on his bare skin, probably. He wore nothing but a cloth wrapped around his waist, exposing his whipcord-lean body to the elements. They seemed to have worn away the flesh from his prominent bones, exposing the joints. Straight, almost deliberate-looking scars ran in raised lines down his shoulders and chest and across his belly. 

_He's all leg_ , Graves couldn't help observing. Most of his height—he loomed over both of them—was in those spindly legs. _I'll bet he can run like a racehorse._

Ngiyari threw back his head and laughed when he saw them. "Only a white man would dress in the desert like he would for a tea party." 

"Are you alone?" Graves asked, ignoring that. By civilised standards they were half undressed, jackets off, sleeves rolled up, and ties discarded. 

"Oh, yes," Ngiyari replied, still chuckling. "I had to apparate up. You're well off the songlines; no one's going to come here on foot." 

Graves didn't see a wand, but Ollie had done wandless magic. _They must be like the Africans and not use them._

Well, none of Graves' wards had detected him as a threat, and they were warded very well here. Graves put his wand away. 

"Percival Graves; this is Credence Barebone." 

"Pleased to meet you," Credence said, glancing between Graves and this stranger. 

As wild as he looked, Ngiyari's mother had been an English witch. He shook both their hands, lingering with Credence's. Self-consciously, the boy edged closer to Graves. 

"Would you like to come inside? It's warmer," Graves said. "We just finished eating." 

"Outside is better," Ngiyari said. "But do you have any firewhiskey?" 

"I certainly don't drink gigglewater." 

"Gigglewater?" Credence repeated dubiously. 

"Is that an American drink?" Ngiyari asked. 

"A ridiculous one," Graves said with a sigh. He'd done a lot of things during the course of his career, but he drew the line at giggling. 

He fetched the bottle and glasses, then followed the others out. Credence had already ushered their guest to a seat in one of the fireside arm chairs. Graves held the firewhiskey suspended in midair while he conjured a third. At a flick of his wand, the bottle tipped itself to pour neatly into the tumblers. 

Graves handed one to Ngiyari and kept the other for himself. Credence didn't drink. With his upbringing, it wasn't surprising. Graves had pressed some on him once after an especially bad episode, but he still preferred chocolate. 

Graves didn't drink much these days either. It was too tempting not to stop. Some nights, mostly when Credence's nightmares were bad enough to dose him with Dreamless Sleep potion, Graves' mind was too haunted to rest. He needed to be upright and moving, even if it was just his arm, with light enough to see by. 

"Tea?" he asked Credence. 

Credence gestured for him to sit down. "I can get it." 

Frowning with concentration, Credence drew his wand and set the teapot to hovering over the fire with a very precise swish and flick, speaking the spell aloud as he did so. Graves smiled his approbation. He _did_ do that prettily. 

They all settled in around the fire. Graves dealt with the fact that there weren't any trees for at least fifty miles in any direction by casting a reduplication spell whenever the bundle he'd gotten in Sydney ran low. The dry desert grass made good tinder. 

Ngiyari inhaled deeply before taking his first sip. Graves waited with the hard-won patience of his profession. He made a strange picture in that chair, scarred and mostly naked, swirling the amber liquid thoughtfully in his glass. The firelight danced in his silver eyes, tracking Credence's movements as he settled into the last chair. Under this new scrutiny, Credence reverted to his old habits, lowering his own eyes to avoid meeting that uncanny gaze. 

"Credence." Ngiyari rolled the name in his mouth like he had the firewhiskey. "The weight of faith." 

Credence ducked his head and his shoulders started creeping up. Between them, Grindelwald and the Barebone woman really had done a number on him. Most of the time, he was something like comfortable with Graves now; but Graves could already see him tensing for the blow, verbal or otherwise. 

He stepped in to draw their visitor's attention. "That's a poetic way of putting it. What about your name?" 

"Ngiyari is a lizard. I think the Mugs call it the thorny devil." He bared his teeth in a smile coloured by the fire light, daring Graves to make a comment. 

"I think we've seen a few," Graves replied mildly. 

"If you were wondering, Ngangkali means cloud." 

"I guess that fits, too." 

Ngiyari raised his glass to acknowledge both the point and Graves' restraint in making it. Graves toasted back. 

The kettle over the fire started whistling. Credence jumped up, fumbling a bit at moving it off the flames but not quite managing to light himself on fire. It even stayed in the air as he ducked back into the tent where the tea and cups were. 

Graves dragged his gaze away and found Ngiyari still looking after Credence. He turned and caught Graves watching him. The fire reflected in his eyes again, changing them from silver to opal. 

"He's a little old to be just learning," Ngiyari observed. 

Graves made an effort to keep his face under control. "It's a long story." 

"Ngangkali did ask me to stop in on you. She didn't offer an explanation for what two American wizards were doing camping out in the middle of nowhere for months on end." 

Graves made a noncommittal noise as he sipped his firewhiskey. 

"I told her that there was something out here. Not nearby, but there are times I can feel it resonating across the land. Something powerful and wild." Ngiyari met and held Graves' eyes. 

"So you came out here to warn us? Considerate, but I can usually handle myself." 

"I came because the only way to know what's going on is to see for yourself. The Mags are better than the Mugs, but they still make trouble for us sometimes. I don't know how Ngangkali can live out there." 

"I have gone to a lot of trouble to ensure we're _not_ making trouble for anybody," Graves said, slightly irritated. 

"It _was_ a lot of trouble," Ngiyari allowed. 

"Like I said, my trouble. Not yours or anybody else's." 

Ngiyari leaned over on his elbow, searching Graves' face. "I think you might mean that. And you had better. This is our land, and our magic has deep roots here." 

"As long as no one bothers us." What other choice did they have? There weren't many places on the planet more isolated than this. What was the next step, a deserted island in the middle of the ocean? There wouldn't be anything to eat but fish. Graves hated fish. 

"I would like to hear your long story sometime. But I suppose if Newt trusts you and Ngangkali gave you wands, that's enough for me to know. Sometimes I think she cares more for her wands than her children." 

"Your sister said as much, but I take it you and your father's people don't use wands," Graves said, steering the conversation back into less perilous waters. "I can manage a few spells, but most of our training still comes from England." 

Credence came back out wrapped in the emerald velvet dressing gown over his shirtsleeves. He had a cup of tea in one hand and Graves' own dressing gown draped over his arm. "I didn't know if you wanted it." 

"Thanks." Graves gratefully donned the blue and silver brocade. 

Credence settled back into his chair. Ngiyari picked up the thread of their interrupted conversation. 

"My sister said you were interested, but she couldn't teach you," he said. 

"Why not?" Credence asked. 

"He's a man. There are different ways for men and women. You see, our magic is tied into our way of life. You can't learn it without also learning our law." 

"American wizards make you follow rules, too." 

"Which wouldn't be at all why you're no longer in America." 

Ngiyari wasn't stupid, or nearly as vague as his sister, despite his less than creditable appearance. Credence looked an appeal at Graves, the beginnings of something more than simple panic in his eyes. 

"We're not— I mean, it's not like that," he protested. 

Graves shared his apprehension. Ngiyari had obviously come to figure out whether they were a threat he'd have to deal with. Technically they weren't doing anything illegal out here. Although it didn't seem likely that Ngiyari would try and use Credence the way Picquery and the council would have, he might still decide it was too dangerous to let them stay if he learned the truth. That wasn't a fight Graves was sure he could win, in the larger sense. Graves marshalled an evasion, but Ngiyari just shook his head. 

"English has no real word for it because your culture has nothing like it. The law touches everything we do, from where we go and when to how we interact each other. It is how we remember our history, how we know the world. I could teach you, but only if you were willing to live among us. It is not an easy path." 

Graves glanced at Credence. "I...appreciate the offer, but I have other commitments." 

Ngiyari nodded easily. "When Newt was with us, he learned only some of what most people know." 

"You know Scamander?" Graves encouraged this return to their previous topic of conversation. 

"He came to Australia to research his book, and my sister brought him out to us for a while. A peculiar young man, but very honourable. That you are his friends says a lot for you." 

"I appreciate that," Graves told him. 

"I hope you do." 

After that moment of intensity, the conversation turned to less edged topics. The fire popped and crackled, sparks flying up to join the cascade of stars overhead. 

"Mister Scamander told us that almost all the desert animals are magical," Credence ventured. "We lived with his beasts on the way here, but I haven't seen anything like them yet." 

"Magical and non-magical aren't very useful concepts," Ngiyari tried to explain. "Everything here is very good at being what it is. There is no mercy for anything that isn't. There is a frog that buries itself and comes alive again in the rain. The rainbow serpent shapes the earth and sustains the ground water. The ninu lives in the desert, but you will never see it drink. They are how they are; we are how we are. Some have power while some do not, but we all live together in the world. Mag or Mug, you're all obsessed with drawing lines." 

And Credence's adoptive mother more than most. The boy had a serious, inward look on his face. Was he thinking about what he was, and how good he was at being it? _And how good are you?_ Graves asked himself. 

It was a thought that lingered. Ngiyari had his suspicions about what they were doing out here, but he didn't seem like he was about to deliver any ultimatums. He'd trust them as long as things stayed under control, Graves judged. 

But it was his philosophy and not his warnings that weighed on Graves' mind. He'd known what he was, once, without question; and he'd been very, very good at it. He'd been born to be an auror. Was that still what he was? He certainly wasn't MACUSA's Head of Magical Law-Enforcement anymore. Graves might as well admit to himself now that he wasn't here to protect the world from Credence, despite his own protestations to that effect: he was here to protect Credence from the world. 

 

"Wake up. Please wake up." The desperate voice reached Graves' stunned ears. He hung onto the body, still warm with life, the knowledge of death like a knife through his heart. 

It squirmed in his grip. "Please, Mister Graves, you have to wake up." 

Not his own voice. It was Credence. Credence needed him; he had to— 

Graves sat bolt upright. Credence stopped shaking him and made to let go. Without thinking, Graves caught his hands. He held on as his ragged breathing gradually evened out. Credence was scared stiff, holding himself still as a statue. 

"Proctor and Corey," Graves swore. 

"You were having a nightmare." Credence squeezed his hands back, trying a little uncertainly to offer reassurance. 

"A nightmare," Graves repeated. He felt like a rung bell. 

"I couldn't get you to wake up." Credence still sounded worried. "Who—who is Vivian?" 

Graves closed his eyes even though it was too dark to see, drawing in a breath. "Vivian Meagher was my partner when I started as an auror. He died—I used to use his wand." It had been quite the scandal at the time, but Graves had been beyond caring. Vivian's wife had been incensed. 

Of all the things Grindelwald had taken from him. No, he wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened to Graves. True, Grindelwald had taken his identity, broken, starved, and tortured him. He'd ravaged the city and the laws Graves had dedicated his life to. He deserved a kick in the head for what he'd done to Credence. But he hadn't broken Graves' heart. You only had that kind of innocence to lose once, and the man Grindelwald had captured hadn't been an innocent in a long time. 

"Do you want some potion?" Credence asked when Graves didn't say anything more or let go of his hands. 

"No. Thank you." Graves patted Credence's face imprecisely. 

"Is that what you dream about? When you have bad dreams?" Credence's tone was sympathetic. "I never know if I should wake you. But this one seemed worse." 

Graves...hadn't quite realised that Credence might be lying awake at night, watching him have nightmares. "Does it happen very often?" 

"I can't sleep, always." 

"It's old business. Almost twenty years." Surely after twenty years he could move on. He certainly seemed to be starting over. 

A hand found him in the dark. It stroked his hair once, then retreated as though embarrassed by its boldness. All of a sudden, Graves couldn't breathe again. 

_Now you're being a totally different kind of ridiculous,_ he told himself. 

Graves tugged on the hand he still held. "Let's try and get some more sleep." 

In the dim light of dawn that peeked in through the curtained windows, Graves watched Credence's sombre, sleeping face. It occurred to him belatedly that here he had again another beautiful, brave young man whose life was constantly in danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm [conditionalriverofabsolutelove](http://conditionalriverofabsolutelove.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you want to stop by!
> 
> Ninu is the Pitjantjatjara word for the bilby. The Pitjantjatjara properly refer to themselves as Anangu, which is the term Ollie uses. Anangu simply means 'people', which you'll find in a lot of languages. The term Pitjantjatjara is basically a linguistic identifier, using a particular conjugation to distinguish it from several other related languages spoken by related groups in Central Australia, sort of like if we referred to the Spanish and French as Vengos and Vais.


	9. Chapter 9

Credence was watching him. Not that that was new behaviour: Credence had been watching him since they got into Scamander's suitcase back in Manhattan. Warily at first, then attentively as they started their lessons. Now it was like Graves was a puzzle he was trying to solve. Graves would look up and find Credence's eyes on him instead of whatever he was working on. It wasn't a precursor to conversation; or anyway, he didn't say anything to explain himself. He'd hold Graves' gaze, too, until colour crept up into his pale cheeks and his eyes darted away. 

Graves never looked away first because he hadn't lost a staring contest since he and Innogen were thirteen and eleven and she'd poked him in the eye with her wand (Graves had learned to applaud his sister's innovative tactics, at least whenever they weren't aimed at his face). But what struck Graves about these odd exchanges was Credence's expression before he realised Graves had caught him, searching his face for—what? Graves searched in turn for a clue to what was going on, but Credence knew how to hide things when he wanted to. 

Graves did wonder. The boy wasn't nearly so shy of him now he wasn't expecting to be whipped for asking questions or breathing too loudly, or whatever other excuses his wretched mother might have seized on. He was still quiet, still serious, but not so glum. His mind was coming awake for, Graves was pretty certain, the first time in his life. He almost considered it a victory whenever he actually got Credence to argue with him. 

"Do I have to learn duelling?" 

"Yes." 

Credence stared at him helplessly for a moment before remembering he formed his own opinions now. "But I don't want to hurt people." 

Graves was undeterred. "You need to learn how to defend yourself." 

"I can already defend myself," Credence pointed out reasonably, still self-possessed but with the suggestion of a deeper darkness flickering behind his dark eyes. 

It made the hairs stand up on the back of Graves' neck. "If you have an argument for how pointing that Obscurus at someone and pulling the trigger is more humane than jinxing their nose hair, I'm all ears." 

Credence blinked, but he wasn't backing down yet. 

"I'm not a humanitarian. I don't really care what happens to anyone dumb enough to take a shot at you. What concerns me is keeping you safe, whether it's from wizards, No-Majs, or that thing inside you. The Obscurus is a double-edged sword at best. I don't want you relying on it." 

At least Credence looked thoughtful. Not happy; but if you insisted your students be happy all the time, you'd never get anywhere. 

"It's not like I'm going to be teaching you the Dark Arts," Graves added. "We'll start with defensive spells; impedimenta, protego. There are all sorts of hexes and jinxes you can use to get someone off your back without doing any permanent damage." 

Although it was arguably the most important thing for Credence to learn, he had held off on this area of training until he thought the boy's nerves would handle things coming flying at his head, even if they were only beams of light. And it was probably going to be a while before they progressed to beams of light; Credence was still picking up theory a lot faster than he could put it into practice. There would be time for him to get used to the idea. 

"Are we in danger?" Credence asked, looking up from the first of the stack of Defence Against the Dark Arts textbooks the next day. "Is that why you want me to learn defensive magic? Did you find something out in the city, that someone's looking for me—us?" 

Graves' eyebrows ticked up in surprised. "Not as far as I know. Have you been worried about that?" 

"I haven't been back there since we arrived. I thought you might be trying to protect me from something." 

"I'm always going to protect you, Credence," Graves said seriously. 

A slow flush crept up from Credence's collar. "You know you don't have to, always. Not anymore. I know I...wasn't doing very well when we came here, but I'm better now. And I'm not a child, either. You saw where I used to live. I know about the world." 

Graves knew that if he had been coddling Credence, he was the first one. That was such an infuriating thought that Graves had to force himself to unclench his jaw before he cracked his teeth. What he said after he pried it open again was, "You know you're welcome to come with me whenever I go to Sydney; I'm sure Ollie would love to see you again." 

"Are you sure it's safe? Aren't all the wizards still looking for us?" Credence asked cautiously. 

Graves, who had known something about the wizarding community in Australia already and managed to pick up a bit more on his supply runs, leaned back in his chair, rubbing his mouth thoughtfully before he spoke. 

"Australia isn't like America, or even England, really. The No-Maj population here is descended from convicts, but the wizards aren't. Historically, there wasn't much immigration at first because not many of us were interested in coming all this way when the continent had nothing to offer but a No-Maj prison camp. You wind up with a lot of eccentrics. Beyond that, we're so thin on the ground, the government's toothless. No real resources, especially since they split off from the British Ministry of Magic. And it's just too isolated for them to get mixed up in international politics." 

Reassurance aside, Credence did not accompany him the next time he went to Sydney. Graves thought Credence was more than a little gun shy. He was now comfortable in the protected environment of their camp and reluctant to risk his hard-won equilibrium. Eventually, they'd have to do something about that; but he wouldn't mind bringing Credence a little further along in his Defence lessons before he pressed the issue. Just in case. 

Not, Graves was careful in his thinking, before he _forced_ the issue. He'd seen the transformation several times now, and what happened when Credence exceeded his limits was an effective caution. Credence knew it, too. The boy might still be quiet and habitually deferential, but the carefully hidden steel core of him showed through more and more often. 

When Graves came back, he was floating six feet off the ground. He skidded several yards through the air when the portkey dumped him out. Ollie's husband Sanna made a disgusted noise and dusted off his trousers. 

Graves' loud whooping brought Credence sprinting out of the tent, wand in hand. He searched automatically for Graves but saw Sanna first. 

"Where's Mister Graves? Is he all right?" 

Credence was already getting blurry around the edges. _Uh-oh._

Sanna flipped one finger up, rubbing his eyes with his other hand. Credence tracked from it up to where Graves was hovering overhead. Graves waved at him cheerily. 

"...Mister Graves?" Credence stared at him, apparently transfixed. 

"Medea, I can't believe he apparates all the way out here," Sanna said, breaking into his reverie. 

Credence's head snapped around. "You're Ollie's husband, aren't you, sir? Mister Sanna." 

"Nice to see you again. I brought back your supplies, too, or I think Percival would have forgotten them." 

"What—thank you, but what happened? Is he all right?" 

Sanna heaved a put-upon sigh. "He was stung by a billywig." 

"But that causes levitation and...giddiness..." 

Credence looked up at Graves again. Graves smiled sunnily down at him. Credence's eyes went wide. 

"I know. We barely got him out of sight in time. It ought to wear off in a few hours. Can you manage him on your own? If you want, I can stay to keep him from drifting off somewhere. Ollie and the children can almost certainly survive one night on their own." 

Credence dragged his gaze away from Graves. "No. Thank you. I can look after him." 

Sanna looked between them and shrugged an eloquent, Mediterranean shrug. "You still have the other portkey, yes?" 

"Yes." 

"Then you will come to us if you need help." Sanna said it with certainty. 

The two of them disappeared inside with the supplies. Graves lost interest and started wandering around. His hat had fallen off somewhere, and he was getting a little hot. Loosening his tie helped some, but the weather was warming up again. A gorgeous spring day in the Outback. 

Graves flung off his suit jacket, too. It caught the air on the way down, the arms flying out in a way that he found hilariously ludicrous for some reason. 

The jacket fluttered to the ground just as Credence stepped back out of the tent and settled at his feet, arms still out-flung. Credence raised his eyes from it to stare at Graves, concern written across his face. 

Graves felt his smile slide sideways. "Don't look so down. Although I suppose you can't come up." 

He snickered at his own joke. Credence opened his mouth to say something, but Sanna was coming out of the tent behind him. Quickly, he stooped to pick up the abandoned jacket and stepped out of the way. 

Graves was finding it difficult to focus. A voice in the back of his mind told him he ought to be more worried about that, but he was feeling too good to care. He got distracted by the stark contrast of strands of dark hair against Credence's pale skin, and then Sanna was gone. 

"Mister Graves?" Credence regarded him with mild uncertainty. 

Graves was sitting cross-legged, floating a little ways above the top of his head. He leaned down towards Credence, drawn, and overbalanced, sending himself into a summersault. 

Credence retreated hastily. "Are you sure you're all right up there?" 

The spin slowed, leaving Graves hovering at an odd angle, his head down, very near Credence's. "Just fine." 

On an impulse, Graves reached out and pulled him off the ground. Credence's arms windmilled in a fruitless attempt at keeping his balance. 

"What are you doing?" 

"I told you: you looked down. So I brought you up." 

Credence was a little wild around the eyes, especially when he looked down and saw nothing below their feet but insubstantial air. He fumbled after Graves with clumsy fingers, seizing hard on his hands when he found them. 

"If you want to be a part of the magical community, you're going to have to learn to take this kind of thing in stride every once in a while." 

"I don't think you really know what you're doing," Credence told him. 

Graves had to laugh. "I haven't known what I've been doing in a long time. Dance with me." 

"What?" 

Graves shifted one of Credence's hands to his shoulder and drew him in. "Dance with me." 

"I can't; I never learned," Credence objected. "Ma—Ma said it was licentious and led you into loose, sinful ways." 

"Then by all means, let's continue to corrupt you." 

Graves caught Credence's gaze and didn't let it go, smiling broadly at him. Credence pinked. Of course, he'd forgotten his hat again. Graves didn't think it was just sunburn, though. 

"Don't we need music?" It wasn't really an objection. 

Graves started humming, sweeping him into the opening figures of a Foxtrot. Credence did laugh then, recognising the song from one of the records Graves had started bringing back because of the look on Credence's face when he listened to them. Or maybe at Graves' efforts at musicality, which wasn't something he attempted often. 

"Manhattan?" 

They glided more than stepped, negating Credence's inexperienced footwork. Some of the stiff self-consciousness went out of his back and shoulders. His frame wasn't perfect, but at least he was keeping his head up. He was meeting Graves' eyes, too, which only made his smile grow wider, even though they were still serious. 

"It feels almost like this, you know. When I lose control and you send your patronus up to fly with me. I can feel you there. I feel more of myself inside it." 

"And you stay." 

"Yes, I stay," Credence agreed gently. 

The sudden upwelling of happiness in Graves' chest made him feel lightheaded. He must have swayed on his feet, because Credence was steadying him. He was frowning again instead of almost-smiling. 

"What do I do with you until you can come down? I can't leave you out here without your hat or anything," Credence fretted. 

"Stop worrying so much. It's a beautiful day." 

"You could get sunstroke," Credence insisted. "You're too hot already." 

Credence's brows drew in in concentration. That was his spell face, not his thinking face; was he trying to do wandless magic? Graves hadn't even come close to teaching him _that_. Really, the only thing he did wandless was— 

Coolness spread out from Credence's hands, sending a shiver through Graves that wasn't at all temperature-related. His eyes were white. Graves stared into them, knowing he should be terrified but unable to feel anything except a bubbling, light-headed euphoria. 

He waited, half breathing, for Credence to come apart. He remained firmly tangible, though. His hands, when he passed them over Graves' face and neck, brought a relief from the heat that Graves hadn't even realised he needed. 

He stared at Credence in wide-eyed wonder. "Mercy Lewis. Are you using—as a _cooler_?" he gasped out through a sudden convulsion of laughter. "I can't—Credence. Credence." He couldn't catch his breath. 

Once he'd persuaded Graves to set him on the ground again, Credence had had to drag him down bodily to get him inside the tent, which had left them both red-faced and breathing heavily. Graves spent the rest of the afternoon floating face-down over the small living area, bumping into the sloping canvas roof. 

Credence had given up on his reading and was now attempting to pull supper together, but he was looking at Graves more than the stew. Graves was still humming to himself, bursting with more energy than he'd had—okay, since before he turned forty. To his delight, he found a gentle push-off would send him zinging across the upper regions of the tent, just above Credence's head. 

_Push._ He wished he had a broom. Salem, Graves had forgotten how much he loved flying. This spin wasn't helping his light-headedness any, though. To steady himself, he reached for the nearest stable object, which happened to be Credence. 

Seeing him coming, Credence threw a hand up to catch him. Graves latched onto it and grabbed his head to brace himself for good measure. 

"Um." Credence eyed him more than a little uncertainly. 

Graves transferred his other hand to Credence's head, too. Solicitously, he smoothed down the hair he'd mussed. Credence stood there patiently, even though Graves kept stroking his hair long after it had been put to rights. 

Credence had tucked himself away again behind his well-learned blank reserve. It was his eyes you had to watch. He was still looking Graves in the face, searching it the same way he had been for weeks now. 

Graves was just opening his mouth to ask Credence what he was looking for when he lurched in the air. Instinctively, they grabbed at each other. Graves' hands dropped to Credence's shoulders, warm through his shirtsleeves with his suit jacket discarded. 

Abruptly, he felt dizzy more than euphoric. Credence was talking, but Graves couldn't hear him over the ringing in his ears. It was Credence's hands that anchored him. 

Credence staggered a few steps under his increasing weight, and the heat from the fire receded. Graves could actually _feel_ his inner buoyancy draining away. 

It left a pounding headache in its wake. Graves sat on the sofa with the heels of his hands digging into his temples. For a change, it was him avoiding eye-contact when Credence brought him a cup of hot, black tea. 

"Sorry you had to see that. Mercy Lewis. I was _giggling_. I was, wasn't I?" 

"Only a little bit," Credence consoled him. 

He groaned in mortification. Back in New York, Graves was glumly certain Seraphina Picquery was laughing and had no idea why. Her and her gigglewater. 

"Go ahead. You can laugh if you want to." Graves exhaled into his teacup so the steam billowed up over his closed eyes, briefly soothing his murderously throbbing sinuses. 

Credence brushed the suggestion aside. "That's not—are you sure you're fine?" 

"Mortified, but it'll pass along with the headache." 

"Then you should drink your tea and go lie down. You'll feel better in the morning." 

"Sir, yes sir," Graves said, a hint of his old discipline creeping into his tone, though not enough to jar his fragile skull. 

Graves was getting too old for falling asleep on the sofa to be a good idea, not that it wasn't the sad, bachelor habit of a man with nothing in his life but his job in the first place. Still, he kicked off his shoes and swung his feet up, resting them on the upholstered arm. An arm flung over his eyes blocked out the light. 

There was a sound from Credence's general direction that he assumed was an objection being swallowed. Well, if Credence felt up to levitating him into the bedroom... Otherwise, Graves was going to lie here until unconsciousness swallowed his shame. His back would hate him later, but he didn't really care just now.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Often we have seen_  
>  _Reawaken in fire_  
>  _The heart of a mountain_  
>  _Once thought far too old_  
>  _What it is, what it seems_  
>  _Is that scorched fields_  
>  _Give better yields_  
>  _Than the gentlest spring_  
>  —Ne me quitte pas

"Was that there yesterday?" 

Credence's gaze tracked down from the horizon, where a dark smudge might have been a herald of the season's first rain shower, to where Graves was staring at a patch of ground on the other side of their fire pit. 

"No." 

Graves nodded. "Good. I would've had to have been more out of it than I thought to miss an eight-foot lizard on our doorstep." 

Credence made a noise, possibly contesting his assessment of how coherent he'd been yesterday. Graves looked at him. He only shrugged. 

Graves settled his black homburg on his head, shading out some of the already intense morning light. He'd had to take all the warming charms off his hats. Calling the winter here mild wasn't the half of it, although sometimes it got almost cold in Sydney. 

Today, Graves was wearing subdued grey, charcoal silk vest under a grey pattern tweed suit. Even his his pins were simple brushed steel. Credence's navy suit was bright in contrast. 

With no one to scandalise out here, Graves didn't always bother with jacket and tie. He had today, though. Graves tried not to feel like he was attempting to cover something more than the base of his throat. _A day late and a dragot short._

"What do we do about it? Do we do anything about it?" Credence transferred his gaze back to the giant lizard. It lifted its flat head to eye him coolly in return. 

Compared to a dragon, of course, this creature wasn't all that big. A lot of its length was tail. No guarantee it didn't breathe fire, though. 

By necessity, they'd both gotten used to dodging wildlife during the months they'd spent mewed up in Scamander's portable zoo, Credence maybe a little more than Graves. City-bred Credence viewed it as a novelty. Graves, veteran of at least a dozen containment situations, tended to be less enthusiastic. 

"I'll move it off a ways. If one of us steps on that thing by accident, it'll probably try to rip off the whole leg." 

Graves rolled his shoulders against the predicted stiffness in his back. When he raised his hand, the lizard's head snapped around to pin him with a hard, reptilian glare. Rows of large, pale spots banded its scaly hide, running into stripes along its pulsating throat. 

Graves was not impressed. He continued the motion, lifting the lizard. It tried to lash at the air with its whip-like tail. When it couldn't find anything solid to strike out against, it hissed at him in ill-temper. 

"No fire yet," Graves muttered to himself. 

"I'd like to see a dragon," Credence said wistfully. 

"No, you wouldn't," Graves told him firmly. 

He set the lizard down a hundred yards or so out from their camp. As soon as he let go of it, it made a sharp turn and bolted in a spray of sandy red dirt through the desert scrub, disappearing down a nearly invisible burrow before Graves could have done anything to stop it. 

"Fast," Credence observed. 

"Suffering Salem." Graves rubbed his face. Well, he wasn't going to go digging for it unless it gave him a reason. 

Intruder dealt with, they got on with their morning. Today, it was potions. Just because he _could_ function when he felt like shit didn't mean he wanted to invite a visit from the Obscurus on top of yesterday's fiasco. At least _Credence_ had kept his head. 

Bless him, so far, Credence hadn't brought it up except to ask him how he was feeling over breakfast. Graves would have been more relieved except that the boy tended to stew for a while before broaching a subject, keeping an eye on Graves' mood—something the Barebone woman's fondness for corporal punishment had no doubt taught him, although now he seemed to do it less from fear and more from consideration. In general, Graves encouraged him to speak up; but thinking before you opened your mouth wasn't a bad habit to be in, really. 

So Graves thought he was ready for it when they set the cauldron to simmer and Credence caught his eye. But nothing to do with Credence was ever that easy. 

Credence visibly braced himself, squaring his shoulders the way he'd started doing to make sure his posture was good. He did it a lot when he wanted Graves to take him seriously. "Vivian." 

Graves froze. He felt his face congealing into a hard, unexpressive expression. 

"He wasn't just your partner, was he?" Credence asked, and Graves noticed what he should have earlier, that the searching in the looks Credence had been directing at him had changed to surety. 

Graves still hesitated. His throat felt thick, and he had to clear it before his voice would come out. "No." 

Credence let it go at that, thank Proctor. Graves still felt the undignified urge to go find that lizard's burrow and crawl in after it. 

Every once in a while, he wished Credence were easier to read, and this was one of those times. Credence hadn't been asking Graves a question. He'd been telling him that he'd figured something out. And while this wasn't the worst reaction Graves had ever gotten, he couldn't be sure it wasn't a subtle warn-off. 

There were lines he was careful not to cross with Credence, despite—in part because of—the fact they shared a bed, lines that he'd clearly trampled all over yesterday in his billywig-befuddled state. Maybe it was time he backed off a little. Credence was much better than he had been. Not out of danger by a long shot, but not balanced so precariously near the edge, either. He'd _used_ the Obscurus yesterday.

It was awkward now, because Graves wasn't used to thinking about touching people. A clap on the shoulder, a gentle pat or cuff around the head. Handing a woman to a seat or in or out of the Floo, like a well-brought-up gentleman. Fleeting contact. Brief, perfunctory; comradely and reassuring. Firmer grips in action, on the streets, the physicality of pushing, shoving, and grabbing. The formality of dancing—Graves was subjected, unbidden, to the memory of the dizzy delirium he'd felt whirling Credence around in mid-air. _Billywigs,_ he told himself firmly. 

If you looked at it, once Graves started to look at it, it was natural how the way he touched Credence had grown out of the paternal style he'd evolved towards his subordinates over the years. Touch bridged the distance the job could create around you. Auroring was a rough business, and there were things it was easier to say with a touch than with words. Credence, holding himself together with his trembling hands, hadn't been up to extensive conversation at first. 

In questionable shape himself, Graves had figured that if Credence at least knew what he needed to keep steady, he certainly wasn't going to object. Over the months, he'd gotten into the habit of laying a hand on Credence's neck or shoulder to gauge his internal tension. And there was the necessary contact, when Credence drained back into his body, face ashen in the harsh desert light; or when he was fighting it back and one of them would reach out. 

Thinking about it now was starting to making Graves paranoid. He was suddenly conscious of it every time their shoulders bumped in the kitchen or he gave Credence an encouraging pat on the back. Was he crowding too close? Did his hand linger too long? _Not long enough,_ complained a voice Graves made a firm practice of ignoring. 

All this moronic dithering led to a hesitation on his part whenever they got near each other. Not being completely stupid, Credence couldn't help but notice. The looks he was giving Graves over the cauldron were thoughtful and masked again. 

Once again, Credence held off mentioning it until they were done for the day and cleaning out the cauldron, a task made more interesting than usual because they'd been making a vanishing potion. Hard to see whether you'd gotten it all out; but if you missed some and it sank in, it vanished parts of your cauldron. Obviously that was a problem, if for no other reason than that invisible cauldrons were tripping hazards. 

"I can finish up here," he offered solicitously. 

It took Graves a moment to realise what he was getting at. He scowled in reflexive irritation. "I'm not about to fall over. It was a billywig, not an erumpent." 

"You've been acting strange all day." Credence's brows drew in as something occurred to him. "Did I...I didn't mean to upset you." 

Graves made a sharp, negating gesture with his off-hand. "I was worried you might feel—I don't want you to be uncomfortable." 

"I just wanted to be sure," Credence said. He looked sure. All of a sudden, he looked very sure; and Graves was confused. 

"Wh—" 

Credence put a hand on his face and kissed him. 

All Graves could do was breathe through it. Of their own volition, his hands came up to clutch at Credence's waist; he felt dizzy again, the world, the entire universe shifting around him. The desire he'd been throttling for months now surged up, threatening to overwhelm them both. 

Graves felt something inside him turn into the swell, like a ship in a storm. Before Credence could do more than start to draw away again, Graves was kissing him back. 

Credence simultaneously sagged with relief and threw himself into Graves, wrapping his arms around his shoulders, pulling them flush. His kiss was passionate but innocent, lips to lips. Had he ever kissed anyone before in his life? If Grindelwald hadn't touched him... Graves made a sound in his throat, almost a growl, at even the idea of Grindelwald touching him. Credence's breath hitched. 

It was a long time before they could bear to stop. Graves' awareness of his own body had disappeared into a general electric tingling. All he could feel was Credence. 

Credence looked at him from so close their eyes couldn't really focus on one another. "Is this something else that you're allowed to do in the wizarding world?" 

"This is our world, Credence," Graves told him. "We can do whatever we want." 

 

Of course, they hadn't finished cleaning out the cauldron when Credence sprang—well, sprang on him. Graves was hardly going to complain, but it did leave them with a patchily invisible cauldron. 

"Can we fix it?" 

Graves tilted his head, examining it. Potions brewing was a naturally messy business, so they were both in shirt sleeves with the cuffs undone and rolled out of danger. They were also wearing heavy canvas aprons to protect them from splatters. 

The aprons had also served to protect his dignity, as well as Credence's sensibilities. He might have been the one who started the kissing, but the raging erection Graves had developed about three seconds after Credence's lips met his might have shocked the boy. He was going to have to take this slow. It was going to be _agonising._

 _You're supposed to be thinking about potions,_ Graves reminded himself. 

"Scouring charms," he decided at last. "Lots of scouring charms." 

"Isn't there a spell to make it visible again?" 

"Sure, but we still need to get the potion out of the cauldron. Think about it." 

Credence turned a little greenish. "Explosions." 

There may have been one or two incidents earlier in the year. "Randomly mixing potions is a bad idea," Graves agreed. "Where did you put it, by the way? Tomorrow we can use it, and I'll show you some revealing spells." 

Unbidden, an entirely different category of revealing spells intruded itself on Graves' mind. He put them firmly to one side. 

The potion stains were stubborn. They took turns scouring the inside of the cauldron until the tightness around Credence's mouth and eyes betrayed the strain on him. Thoughtfully, Graves lifted his wand from the cauldron, trailing a stream of water and bubbles. 

Credence's eyes widened a split second before the wave of tepid, soapy water crashed down over him. Sputtering and staggering, he waved his wand furiously in Graves' direction. "Aguamenti!" 

Graves raised a hand, deflecting the gout of water. The spray felt nice, actually. "Remember to shield." 

Credence scowled at that, so Graves sent another jet of water at him. This time, Credence managed to get out of the way, casting a shield charm when it turned to chase him. Cleverly, he angled it so the water was reflected back towards Graves. He barked an appreciative laugh, and Credence's eyes flashed in fierce satisfaction. 

They duelled, slinging water back and forth like schoolboys until they were sodden and laughing and coated in wet, brick-red sand. A last effort from Graves snuck around Credence's shield—when Credence got a shield _up_ , you could hammer at it all day—and knocked him to the ground. 

Credence rolled out from under it, raising his wand; but Graves held out his hand—a gesture he could turn to defence if Credence decided to take this opportunity to sucker-punch him. "Pax?" 

Credence hesitated, visibly switching gears. "Pax," he agreed, letting Graves pull him to his feet. 

They were standing very close, and it was the easiest thing in the world to tug Credence in a little and kiss him. There was sand on their lips, in their mouths, rough and mineral-tasting. Graves couldn't help licking in. 

Credence made a startled noise, and he forced himself to pull back. He was bright-eyed, flushed, and looking pretty pleased with himself to have just fought an entire duel, as silly a one as it had been, without the Obscurus making an appearance. 

Graves used another spell to strip off most of the grit and some of the excess water, enough that they wouldn't destroy the tent's interior just by going inside. They were still going to have to change, though. 

"And I thought auroring was hell on clothes." Graves sighed, pulling off his apron and smoothing down his hair. "Tell you what: you make lunch, and I'll do the laundry." 

"Deal." 

Credence discarded his own filthy apron and started unbuttoning his equally begrimed vest, then paused. Graves, tie pin and collar bar cupped in his palm, glanced over at his sudden stillness. Delayed reaction to all the magic he'd used this morning? Sometimes it hit him like that. Maybe they should have eaten first, dirt be damned. 

He touched Credence's shoulder with the back of his hand. No dangerous tremulae. "Everything okay?" 

Credence twitched, suddenly looking younger and much less sure of himself. Confident, you could see the Obscurus—or maybe that was the power that fuelled it—in him. But none of that was visible now, just...embarrassment? _Oh._

"Sorry," Credence apologised. "I know it's silly." 

This was exactly what Graves had been worried about earlier. Graves had lived in close quarters before, and he mostly kept his eyes to himself. But it was true that, two men together, they'd been much less modest than you could be with even a woman auror like Tina Goldstein. And there was a world of difference between undressing around someone and undressing around someone you'd kissed. 

Graves cupped Credence's face in his free hand and tilted it up level. "Look at me. I'm not going to rush you into anything. You can go in the bathroom if you'd rather. Or I can, or something. I might be an invert, but I hope I'm not a complete moral write-off." 

Credence reached up to brush at a smudge of dirt on his face. He fingered the line of Graves' cheekbone and then down to his mouth. His eyelashes lowered as he leaned in to replace his fingers with a kiss. It still tasted like sand. Graves returned it gently and tried not to make a liar of himself. 

Credence pulled back. He squared his shoulders. 

"I'm not ready for, for— But I don't think you need to hide in the bathroom," he told Graves sturdily.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I will make you a land_  
>  _Where love will rule all_  
>  _Where love will be law_  
>  _Where you will reign_  
>  _Only do not leave_  
>  —Ne me quitte pas

After all the excitement, Graves decided to try for a quiet afternoon. He was getting more practice in domestic charms than he'd ever expected. Cooking, cleaning, laundry...why did it have to be _red_ sand? And why, by all those hanged at Salem, couldn't he keep his wardrobe intact? Graves supposed it would have helped if he'd gone into business like Drusus. 

Once he'd done his best with their clothes, he stopped to finish scraping the last of the caked-on potion from the cauldron. Then he settled in with a book he'd picked up on advanced Australian spellwork, which on top of the obvious British influences seemed to draw on native techniques, although the instructions left a lot to be desired. Credence was already deeply involved in his own reading. With laudable self-control, Graves kept himself from interrupting. 

"Mister Graves," Credence started to say some indeterminate amount of time later to get his attention. 

"Percival," Graves corrected him. "Percy, even." 

"Percival," Credence tested the way it tasted on his tongue. 

Graves rose to join Credence at the table and answer his question. He wasn't sure who kissed whom first, but they had both been leaning closer and closer to each other and looking less and less at the book. 

Daring, Credence's tongue traced the seam of his lips. Graves parted them at the suggestion; already, he felt like his heart was starting and stopping every time Credence paused to assimilate a surprising new sensation. The taste of Graves' mouth, the feel of his teeth, their tongues sliding together. Graves restrained himself to Credence's pace, but he reached after everything he could. 

 

The next day, the spotted lizard was back. It was further out this time, watching them with such aggressive attention that Graves cast Revelio on it just to make sure it wasn't an animagus. Today was revealing spells anyway. 

The lizard flicked out a startlingly colourful tongue and walked a quarter circle around their camp, settling in an open space between the hummocks of stringy desert grass to bask in the morning sunlight. Graves decided that if it they hit it with a stray jinx, it was asking for it. 

Astronomy hadn't been this romantic since Graves was in fifth year. They managed to spill ink all over Credence's almost-finished star chart. It soaked into the back of his dressing gown, so Graves replaced it with his own. The blue and silver brocade made Credence's fair skin glow under the starlight, giving Graves no choice but to kiss him. Credence toppled him over onto his back, keeping them from ending up in the ink again. 

There was no denying that their newfound inability to keep their hands to themselves was interfering with Credence's studies, but it wasn't like they were on a deadline. And, Graves thought, Credence was still learning, after all. Some things were important to know. 

He was learning fast, too. Heavy-limbed and still a little sleepy, Credence returned sloppy waking-up kisses despite the hazards of morning breath. One hand slid over Graves' shoulder blade, and clever fingers stole up to the sensitive spot at the back of his neck, sending shivers down his spine. 

Graves palmed his warm side through thin silk pyjamas. The memory of his mortifying performance after that billywig sting had been balanced out by the discovery that Credence was ticklish. _What dire secrets we hold in trust._

Predictably, there had been some momentary awkwardness in sharing a bed right after Credence had hauled off and kissed him. They'd gotten past it, thankfully. Graves was being very careful to behave himself. 

Credence, on the other hand, had revealed an unsuspected streak of cruelty. With a last kiss, he wriggled out from under Graves' arm and rolled out of bed, leaving Graves with his hair sticking up on one side and a throbbing erection pressed into the mattress. Graves' hand in the shower was becoming less and less satisfying. He collapsed face-first into the pillows, his shoulders slumping in a deep sigh. 

Winter had seen a change in the weather from punishing to merely warm, but the spring sun was growing hotter every day, it seemed like. The water they'd splashed around in their duel had caused a ring of wild flowers to spring up overnight, attracting a variety of animal life and lingering for a week before they died back again. 

To Graves' annoyance, the spotted lizard was still lurking around the edges of their camp. There was a weathered rock jutting up out of the scrub a little ways back that was apparently too warm and sunny for even a pair of active wizards to drive it off. The abundance of prey attracted by the temporary oasis probably had something to do with it, too.

"Two of them now?" Graves said in a pained voice when he came outside again one afternoon after setting the lunch dishes to washing themselves. 

Credence was lying in the sandy dirt with his notebook spread in front of him. He was writing in his careful, neat hand on one page while another pen darted across the one facing, sketching out a picture of the two lizards. 

"Why don't you like them? It isn't as though they're bothering us," Credence pointed out. 

"It's the way they look at me. I've been looked at that way before." 

"It's the way you look at people all the time," Credence muttered. 

Graves nudged him with the toe of his shoe just to let him know he'd heard that. Out in the scrub, the two lizards had drawn closer, standing next to each other partially entwined. 

"Um," said Graves. 

"Are they—?" 

Hastily, Credence snatched the second pen off the page and snapped the notebook shut. One of the lizards puffed up its neck and hissed at him as he scrambled to his feet. 

He flinched a little when Graves reached out to help dust him off. Graves gave him a dry look. 

"Don't worry; I promise I'll at least buy you dinner before I assault your virtue." 

"In Sydney," Credence pressed impulsively. He paused, taken aback by his own daring. He looked equal parts exhilarated and terrified. "You're going for supplies next week. Take me with you." 

Graves swallowed. He had to do it twice before he could get his tongue to move. "It would be my pleasure." 

 

Graves spent the next week and a half planning the excursion. He even went so far as to apparate out to Sydney to let Ollie and Sanna know they were coming and make reservations. Under ordinary circumstances he'd have sent an owl, but they didn't have one. Graves' Phaenna hadn't been in her cage when they'd left Manhattan. And, on reflexion, he wasn't sure an owl would survive the trip across the desert. There weren't many birds out this far, just the occasional raptor—or possibly vulture—circling speck-like in the high distance. Of course, the Obscurus might have had something to do with that, too. 

They'd been letting the standards lapse a little, but both of them took extra pains with their appearance this morning. Graves arranged his lapels, a deep peacock green vest under the one from his suit, which was the colour of wet sand. Normal wet sand, not the red stuff out here. His tie was charcoal silk, dark but so richly dyed he half expected his fingers to come away smudged when he adjusted the knot over the collar bar. 

Credence was wearing the houndstooth check, a suit he knew Graves had a particular weakness for on him. Graves waited, watching with appreciation the set of his shoulders as he finished knotting his tie, then caught his hand. 

Credence tugged him in for a kiss, tangling their fingers together. The dry air had chapped his lips like it had Graves'. He smelled like soap and Graves' aftershave, which was a new addition. Whatever primal part of Graves' brain was responsible for all that found it more compelling than was probably reasonable. 

"I believe I was promised dinner, Mister Graves," Credence murmured, not sounding all that put out. 

"You're a feast to me," Graves said, but desisted. 

Credence pinked charmingly, Graves saw as he drew back. He turned Credence's hand over, swiping his thumb across the pale, sensitive skin of Credence's wrist before fastening his shirt cuff over it. Although it had been only reasonable to get Credence his own clothes, Graves had, at length, been persuaded that he had more than enough of the assorted accessories for the both of them. 

Left to his own devices, Credence invariably gravitated towards the most plain options. What Graves had chosen for him this morning were sapphires set in geometric silver, little sparks of colour against the black and white pattern of his suit. For himself, Graves had a set of green sapphire and white gold. 

Releasing Credence's right hand, Graves caught up his left and repeated the procedure. His mind lingered on the likelihood that he would be the one unfastening them tonight, too. Their eyes met, and Graves knew they were thinking the same thing. 

Credence held his gaze, wearing an expression of such openness and certainty that it was either step back or take him right here and now. With a great effort of will, Graves stepped back, letting Credence's hand slip free from his. 

"Apparition or portkey?" he asked, breaking the spell. 

Credence considered, slowly reaching for his suit jacket. "Portkey." 

Grave paused in shrugging on his own jacket. "Sure?" 

"It's going to be hard on you, transporting all the supplies back here, and me, across god knows how many miles." 

"I can handle it." 

"So can I." 

Their eyes locked and held for a long moment before Graves waved a hand in acquiescence. 

"I haven't splinched anyone in _decades_ , you know," he still felt obliged to mutter. 

They arrived in a back room of Ollie's shop, startling the gawky adolescent girl who'd come in there on some errand. 

"Mister Graves!" she squeaked. 

"Good morning." Graves didn't try to guess which of the girls she was. 

"Is this your friend, sir?" Her voice came down to a more normal register along with her heart rate.

"Yes. We have some errands to run, but we'll be back for lunch." 

"It's at one. I'll tell mum and dad you're here." 

With that, she went flitting out of the room with an appalling amount of youthful energy. Graves looked away from the abruptly empty doorway to see how Credence was doing. 

A little stiff, and white around the lips. He was already doing better than after his last portkey trip, though. 

"Need a minute?" Graves asked, sending the smoothed piece of wood to a high shelf out of the way, where no one would touch it by accident. 

Credence shook his head. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders; some of the colour was coming back into his face. 

Credence emerged warily into the morning bustle of Sydney's streets. Graves was almost used to being unused to it, or maybe he was just less squirrelly than he'd been when they first ventured into the Outback. He wasn't as comfortable with people as he'd been before. It was hard to tell whether Grindelwald or a most of a year's isolation was to blame. 

Comfortable or not, Graves was starting to be known in a few places around town. He could have been more careful, transfigured his face, used false names, never visited the same place or made the same order twice in a row. Graves had hunted fugitives, and he knew how to disappear. 

Something in him, though, baulked at hiding. He had removed himself and Credence for their safety and everyone else's. But if Picquery or anyone else came after them, he'd give them a fight. 

That being said, he wasn't going looking for trouble. The story, generally plausible, that Graves had been giving was that he was studying the desert ecology; Willard knew he'd spent enough time around Scamander to make it sound convincing. 

Although he was always alone, he was obviously getting supplies for more than just himself; and some of the shop owners remembered Credence from the day they arrived in Sydney. Graves had explained it by telling the curious that his colleague was deeply involved in his studies and preferred not to be interrupted. Since Credence actually had been observing the sparse wildlife as it presented itself—the man-sized lizards had finally gotten bored with them and disappeared, thank Salem—the part fit him believably. 

Outside of certain isolated rural communities, it was impossible to live without having _any_ contact with No-Majs. In the States, witches and wizards still tended to congregate, though, because MACUSA strongly discouraged unnecessary interaction with the non-magical population. It was a difficult balance to keep.

Sydney didn't have anything like the Sub-City under Manhattan. Most of the wizarding shop-owners were like Ollie and dealt with both communities, mundane goods out front and magical wares tucked away in back rooms. It was hard to make a living otherwise. Of course, there were always truly magical places; you could find them all around the world. But there was no concentration of them here, scattered as they were across the city. 

Graves had a book to return, so he took Credence to the library. "Somebody has an overdeveloped sense of melodrama," he commented, examining a dusty shelf on the back wall of the No-Maj library. "Ah. Here it is." 

With a glance around to make sure no one was watching them, he touched the spines of several books in a specific pattern. Graves was of the opinion that if they taught everyone how to do this sort of thing without wands it would make them all far less conspicuous. On the other hand, if you had to pull your wand out before doing any magic, you didn't find yourself in danger of summoning a cup of coffee from across the room with a wave of your hand at an inopportune moment. Graves had to watch himself around No-Majs. 

The bookcase swung out, revealing a slightly rough wood staircase leading downwards. There were enough atmospheric cobwebs lingering in the corners that Graves always kept an eye out for acromatula when he came down here. 

The Antipodean Library wasn't a spectacle on the scale of the MACUSA National Library or the one at Ilvermorny, but it didn't do too badly. Graves figured on introducing Credence to _real_ magical books, the kind that didn't just lie quietly on the table while you read them, as something to do that was comparatively quiet and likely to hold his attention until it was time for lunch. 

They stopped for a while in the dimly-lit privacy of the gallery overlooking the main floor, watching a steady stream of books rising up and flowing out across the library, back to their shelves. The wonder on Credence's face was more open now, no longer buried beneath the fear and uncertainty that had overlain his first steps into the magical world. 

Graves laid a hand on the back of Credence's neck. If he left it there longer than was really appropriate, well, there was no one around to comment. 

As a matter of fact, privacy had always been one of the more useful things any library had to offer, as far as Graves was concerned. A volume Credence had been browsing though squawked in outrage when Graves leaned in over it to steal a kiss. Calmly, he flipped it shut and continued with what he was doing. 

Credence made a vague noise of protest and pulled away—not, Graves noticed, immediately. He tugged his book back from under Graves' hand, giving him a slightly reproachful look. 

"You lost my place." 

"Sorry." 

The twitching corners of Credence's mouth said he didn't believe him. Well, contrition had never really been Graves' strong suit. 

Graves smiled back. Credence smoothed his hair, which had gotten slightly mussed somehow, and pointedly turned his attention back to the book, bending over a random page. His show was somewhat undercut when it started making a racket again as soon as he opened it. 

"Oh, hush," he told it. 

The book spluttered into silence. Graves felt a warm glow of pride. 

Credence left with several books and longing glances at the No-Maj library, which he'd only gotten to see in passing. It was staid in comparison, to Graves' jaded eye. 

"We can always come back," Graves told him. "Actually, we have to. That's the difference between a library and a book shop." 

As they walked along the street back towards Ollie's shop, a church bell started ringing out the hour. Credence noticed Graves watching him. 

"It's not all bad," Credence volunteered, surprising him. Religion was one of those topics Graves had been happy to quietly let lie. "But it's wrong about a lot, too." 

"Most of what I know about religion is from my History of Magic classes. Not my favourite subject," Graves admitted. 

"I noticed," Credence observed impertinently. 

Arriving at Ollie's shop, they were greeted by another of Ollie and Sanna's children. He sent them on to the upstairs apartment while he took their supplies back to the store room and followed after. 

Graves rapped on the doorframe leading into the sitting room to announce their arrival. Credence's expression became nervous again as the volume of the conversation inside swelled in excitement. 

The girl they'd surprised earlier ducked out of the kitchen. She sat them down and served them tea, very careful to be polite and composed, compensating for having let them fluster her earlier. 

"Where have you been?" she asked sharply when her brother finally came up from the shop, her air of decorum slipping. 

"Downstairs," he told her, unperturbed. 

"Well, obviously," the girl snapped. "I don't want any of your lollygagging around today. Can't you see we've guests?" 

"I let them in, didn't I?" her brother replied, skirting around her towards the hallway to the kitchen. 

The girl stamped her foot in frustration. "Galenos!" 

"Glykeria!" 

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!" 

"Children!" Sanna's voice came booming down the hall. 

Galenos stuck his tongue out and zipped past Glykeria before she could could hex him with her wand, which she'd been using to serve the tea. She crossed her arms and glared after him, then seemed belatedly to remember Graves, Credence, and her dignity. 

"Sorry about that," she apologised, speaking loudly enough to be heard in the rest of the apartment. "He hasn't any manners." 

Graves, through years of practice, kept a straight face. Credence looked like he didn't know whether to be amused or worried. 

Graves patted his knee. "We don't mind." 

Glykeria narrowed her eyes. "That figures. You're boys, too." 

"Kerrie, lunch is ready," the other boy—what was his name? Gavriil—stuck his head into the room to say. 

Gaiane, the last one, was helping her parents and brothers arrange the last of the food on the table in the dining room. Ollie looked away from the napkins she was enchanting into—well, some of them were half finished, but the figures struck Graves as unsettling. 

"Oh, you _are_ still here," she greeted Credence, smiling vaguely. "That's nice. Hello." 

"I told you he was," Sanna said with an air of weary patience. 

"Mister and Missus Sanna. Thank you for inviting us," Credence said, looking between the pair uncertainly. His good manners were too well-ingrained for him to comment, though. 

They had obviously gone to some effort preparing this meal. Sanna was a reasonable cook and, more impressively to Graves' way of thinking, able to keep Ollie out of the business. She might be an exceptional wand-maker, but Graves wouldn't trust her around food, either. 

Credence was starting to relax a little as the children's overt enthusiasm drew no more punishment than the occasional fondly-exasperated word. They were always excited to see Graves, probably because he represented something of a mystery. Credence captured even more of their attention.

Graves have never been especially good with children. He had a few nieces and nephews he saw occasionally, but the skills he'd developed for comforting children caught up in the sort of thing that called for aurors were fairly rough. The gentleness he'd found for Credence continued to surprise him. 

Credence seemed to like the kids, though. He was kind, and they responded to his genuine interest. 

"Do you all go to school?" 

One of the boys, Graves thought it was Gavriil, responded. "Mum and dad teach us." 

" _Other_ Mag kids go to school," Gaiane complained bitterly. 

"We're going to the Outback, too, to learn Tjkurpa," Galenos said. 

"Not for at least another year." 

"Yeah, but dad wants us to learn his magic first. We're way ahead of the Mag kids," Glykeria told them. 

"You can talk; mum's teaching you two already," Gavril said, looking a little jealous. 

Gaiane made a face. "Well, we have to learn some of it from her anyway."

"That's how it's _done_ ," Glykeria agreed, in the condescending tone of someone stating the blatantly obvious. 

"Anyway, so do you, so I don't know what you're complaining about."

Their parents let them run on. From the look on Sanna's face, it wasn't the first time he'd heard this conversation. He gave Graves a commiserating look and passed him a basket of rolls. 

Credence was smiling when they left, after being taken a tour of the shop and the wood shop and the magical display room. Ollie and Sanna had quite an operation here. 

With their errands taken care of, Graves and Credence made their way out to the water and walked along the bay. Eventually, they found a quieter stretch, lined with trees and various sorts of greenery, the water rippling on the other side of the path. Its surface was dotted with ships—freighters and ocean liners like the one they had stowed away on as well as the private yachts of the rich. It was the wrong time of day for fishing boats. 

"I'd almost forgotten what open water looks like," Credence said, staring out across the bay. 

It wasn't particularly wide at this point, and another part of the city was visible on the other side. Still not as busy as the port in New York, it had the familiar smell of salt water and the trash people who lived near water invariably threw into it. 

"It's amazing how quickly you can get used to it. I remember the first time I did anything like this. Six weeks in Arizona," Graves told him. 

"On a case?" 

Graves nodded. "I was on the inter-state squad for a while. Going back home was a shock. I mean, it was always like that, a little. I liked staying in the city better. Innogen's the one who likes to travel." 

"You miss it." Credence lowered his eyes. 

"Well, yes. But I don't think it would be better if I were there." Graves stopped Credence with a hand on his wrist, and they moved out of the flow of traffic. They stood angled slightly towards each other, shoulders almost touching. "I'm not the man I was. This year with you has changed me." 

"Do you know what I think?" Credence said. "I think you needed for someone to need you to care more than you needed to hold back." He frowned at the way that sentence had come out but didn't try to untangle it.

Slowly, Graves met his eyes. "Maybe you've saved me as much as I've saved you." 

They had reservations that evening at a wholly magical restaurant. It wasn't the stiffest place Graves had ever stepped foot in, but he saw Credence square his shoulders when he realised the sorts of people who were going in. A man and woman in formal dress robes apparated near them in the foyer, the first obvious wizards Credence had seen. Others were walking out of flashes of green flames in a tall, ornate fireplace.

Graves was in the habit of reserving his tables near a wall instead of in the middle of the room, since auroring didn't always make one popular. Credence seemed relieved to be less exposed, although he still looked distinctly uncomfortable. 

"I don't have the manners for a place like this," he said in a nervous undertone. 

"Just keep your elbow off the table; you'll be fine," Graves told him. 

Credence looked offended at the suggestion that he would _ever_ rest his elbows on a table. Ah, that was better. Graves smiled at him. 

The wine list and tonight's menu appeared inscribed in the air in shining letters. Graves had to translate some of the French. Some of the dishes were magical and so obviously unfamiliar to Credence. In Graves' experience, the hors d'oeuvres were generally especially showy, so he ordered a few. The food materialised in a matter of moments. Stuffed mushrooms spun like tops around their plates while little balls of cheese studded with herbs juggled themselves and stuffed endive spears marched in formation. 

Bottles and decanters wound around the room, pouring themselves into glasses. Credence, of course, drank nothing more potent than gillywater. Graves limited his own consumption, although the cellars here turned out to be excellent. As good a head as he had for wine, he definitely didn't want to be drunk tonight. 

Graves was wholly intent on Credence. In the face of his concentrated attention, Credence returned his focus, forgetting the rest of the restaurant and how nervous he thought he should be. What a long way he had come. 

There were still shadows deep in those dark eyes, but they were clearer now. There was room for other things to show through. He watched the food's acrobatics with interest, asking questions about the charmwork responsible. Graves wondered if he was in for a period of messy food experimentation after this. Although Credence was serious about food generally; Graves didn't think he would risk ruining any. 

At least Credence seemed to be taking this as the treat Graves had intended, despite his initial dubiousness about the upper-class trappings. Credence was slowly untangling his own sensibilities from those of his adopted mother. He'd embraced some things—magic and Graves himself, notably—but he hadn't dumped his austere upbringing completely. 

Dessert arrived, balls of sorbet that unfurled like the blossoms of a peony. Even Graves had to admit it was almost a crime to eat it. 

And then it was time to go. As they moved out into the restaurant's foyer, Graves tugged Credence in close and apparated directly into Ollie's storage room, where the boy Galenos had piled the packages containing their next month's supplies on top of an unsold sideboard. 

"Somebody's impatient," Credence teased. 

Graves noticed that he hadn't made a move yet to let go of his arm. They were standing shoulder to shoulder, and all Graves would have to do to kiss him was turn his head and lean in. 

"I just don't want to tire you out with too much walking." 

Graves had just begun that precipitous lean when someone cleared their throat. Belatedly, his gaze swept the room for other occupants. He'd thought the lights might have been left on for them, but apparently not. Ollie was standing next to a tall cabinet, back by the section of the storage room that looked more like a lumber yard. Her hands were full of small branches. Credence flushed bright red, although as compromising positions went, that had been fairly mild. 

"Hello, Ollie," Graves greeted her calmly. "You're working late." 

"Night's the time for dreams," she answered elliptically. A sly gleam entered her silver eyes. "And for other things." 

Graves grinned, still retaining possession of Credence's arm. "Sorry to interrupt. Credence, why don't you help me with all of this and we'll let Ollie get back to work." 

Gratefully, Credence bent his still furiously blushing face over the sideboard. He sorted through the supplies with brisk efficiency, handing some off to Graves before scooping the rest up himself. 

Graves called the portkey down from its shelf to hover between them, glancing back at Ollie. "Good night," he told her. "We'll see you next month." 

The tone of her answering _good night_ , as it followed them into the vortex of the portkey, was hard to identify, but Graves was leaning towards amused. 

Credence slumped in relief once they were safe in the desert again, with nobody within a hundred miles of them. He almost dropped some of the packages he was carrying, but tightened his grip in time. 

The sun was just slipping below the horizon, shooting thick, golden rays through the twilight. Everything was a dramatic mix of red, orange, gold, and purple. 

Graves laid a hand on Credence's shoulder, and he groaned in embarrassment, resting his forehead on a sack of potatoes. " _Percival._ I can't believe it. Caught in the _store room_." 

"Caught doing what? We were barely holding hands." 

"And you! You don't have any shame at all, do you?" Credence gave him a baleful side-eye. "What's she going to think of us?" 

"Ollie's a married woman. And she didn't seem all that shocked to me," Graves pointed out. "Her family, now. I've heard some very improbable stories about one of the Lovegood cousins who keeps unicorns, for instance." 

Credence shook his head. "No shame at all." 

He sighed and straightened, only to find the parcels lifting themselves from his arms to join the string already bobbing into the tent. Graves ran a hand down the line of his back, which had been driving him to distraction all day. Credence tensed back up, then relaxed, sliding an arm around his waist. 

"You know, we're pretty exposed out here. Anyone might walk by." 

"Don't be silly," Credence told him, but the corners of his mouth were twitching. 

Graves turned into his embrace and delivered the kiss that had been interrupted in Ollie's store room, with interest. Credence brought his other arm up, securing them together. His hands had crept in under Graves' suit jacket, although there were still several layers of cloth between where they were and where Graves wanted them. 

"Why don't we go someplace more private?" he murmured. 

Credence poked him in the ribs, making a face. "Don't tease." 

"Never." 

Inside, there was a moment of hesitation as they stood together in the bedroom. For weeks now, they had been awkwardly toeing a line they were now about to cross. 

"Are you sure?" Graves asked, trying not to telegraph how much he wanted the answer to be _yes_.

Credence brushed his cheek gently with the backs of his fingers. "I trust you. I love you." 

Overcome by a surge of emotion that hit him like flood waters sweeping away the remnants of a crumbling wall, Graves kissed Credence. He kissed him with passion, which Credence returned; and he kissed him with intent. 

Credence's pupils were wide with arousal and a little shock when they paused for breath. Graves had already gotten his jacket off; now he shrugged out of his own and discarded it with similar unconcern for where it ended up. Credence's eyes followed his movements hotly. 

A hand at the back of Graves' neck tilted his head for another kiss. Graves covered it with his own and drew it slowly down until he could turn it palm-up. He felt Credence's breath stutter as he stroked his thumb over the sensitive skin peeking out from his shirt cuff. 

It was while he was undoing the second cufflink that Graves remembered what he'd thought this morning. He smiled and raised Credence's hand to press a kiss to his racing pulse. There were times when all the complexities of undressing were an unbearable delay, but right now the slow, steady building of tension was exquisite. Unfastening Credence's collar and unravelling his tie, Graves trailed his lips down the pale, markable skin of his throat. He had already left a couple of bruises there, mostly faded now. 

Hands sliding up his sides, Credence drew him in closer and reclaimed his mouth. Their bodies pressed together. Graves heard his breath hitch when that extra step in brought their hips together. Credence froze, startled, but Graves couldn't restrain a moan. 

Credence laughed a little self-consciously and his hands started moving again, trying to unknot the slippery silk tie at Graves' throat while they kissed. That started a general resurgence of effort at undoing buttons where Credence was doubly at a disadvantage, since Graves had both more experience and twice as many buttons. 

Having gotten Credence down to his shirtsleeves at last, Graves slid the suspenders off over his shoulders, relishing the feel of his warm body through the fine silk shirt. He pressed Credence to a seat on the bed and sank to his knees to tug off his shoes. It was awfully tempting to go right on to his trousers, but Graves controlled himself. 

Credence ducked in to kiss him again, bearing down on him with such intensity Graves thought he'd be willing to follow him to the floor. _No need for that._

Rising, he hitched Credence further onto the soft mattress, toeing off his shoes with no regard for scuff marks before joining him there. Automatically, Credence righted himself on the bed. He watched Graves coming, flushed and wide-eyed, lips parted in nervous exhilaration. 

Things moved faster after that. It was all deep kisses and busy hands and increasing amounts of skin. Credence got past the last stubborn buttons on Graves' vests and went to work directly on his shirt. Their cuffs flapped open around their hands. 

Graves knelt straddling Credence, diligently working to peel away the last layers between them. It was almost a shock when Credence's long, deft fingers reached his trousers first. He dared an exploratory touch through their fabric then hesitated, not sure what to do next. 

Graves hissed in a breath and held it, and himself, for a still moment. He caught Credence's uncertain expression and ducked in to offer a reassuring kiss. 

"Hold that thought." 

Quickly, Graves sat back and shucked off his doubled vests, followed by his suspenders, shirt, and undershirt. He felt strangely nervous himself, naked to the waist under the weight of Credence's regard. 

"Go ahead. Touch me." Graves took one of Credence's hands and pressed it to his bare skin, guiding it over his ribs—less prominent now than they'd started out—and the miscellany of scars on his chest. 

Credence traced one, then consciously, cautiously drew his fingers up the trail of dark chest hair that was just starting to glint with silver, stroking it lightly. Graves made little encouraging noises; gradually, he grew bolder. 

When Credence's explorations reached the hollow of Graves' throat and he started having to stretch, Graves let himself fall forward again onto his hands. Credence tugged him down further and sealed their mouths together. 

And Credence's _hands_ on him. _Finally._ Graves leaned into them; going over onto one elbow, he picked up where he'd left off and continued unbuttoning Credence's shirt one-handed. 

He loved the sounds Credence made when he got involved enough to forget to be self-conscious, soft, happy noises that he voiced into Graves' mouth. They were as sweet as his kisses, which on their own were enough to unstring Graves completely. 

About halfway down Credence's stomach, Graves decided he was feeling a little impatient after all. He rucked Credence's undershirt up enough to get his hand under it and slowly dragged both garments off over his head. 

Credence let out an actual moan, shuddering in a near-ticklish reaction. Graves stroked his side soothingly, taking a long moment to look his fill, now he was allowed. The Obscurus always seemed to melt the flesh off of his bones whenever he fought free of it, but Credence was at least less horribly gaunt than he'd used to be. The skin of his chest and stomach was smooth and creamy, without even the little bit of weathering his face and hands had acquired. There were the edges of a few old weals on his arms, spill-over from the whippings he'd endured to his hands and back. 

Graves closed his lips around one pink and pebbled nipple, causing Credence to gasp and his hips to buck, bringing their erections back into contact. Ingrained habit overtook prudence, and Graves bit at the sensitive nub in his mouth. 

It got him the reaction he'd been aiming for, another jerk of the hips. Credence's yelp of surprise practically qualified as a squeak, but the hands that flew to Graves' face and shoulder didn't try to pull him away. 

He gave a soothing lick by way of apology, although it hadn't been a hard bite. _Gentle, man,_ Graves schooled himself. 

He was more careful with the other one. You hardly needed to use your teeth; Credence was wonderfully sensitive. 

Their hips were rocking together steadily now. Credence's chest heaved against his mouth. His fingers brushed Graves' lips almost reverently when he raised them at last. 

Graves did cheat removing the rest of their clothes. It was one of the most complicated wandless spells he knew, but he'd had a lot of practice over the years. 

"Percival!" Credence gasped. 

Graves looked up, assessing the colour of his cheeks, embarrassment versus arousal. He stretched out so they were touching all along the lengths of their bodies and he was in a position to drop a kiss on the corner of Credence's mouth. Credence's naked cock rubbed against his own. 

"Good?" Graves asked. 

"Percival," Credence repeated, in an entirely different tone. 

"Good." Graves kept moving, leading Credence into a rhythm. "Like this. Just like this. See? It's easy." 

Their kisses turned sloppy as Credence was distracted by new pleasure. He chased after it with his whole body, clinching Graves in close. 

Dragging his mouth over Credence's pale cheek to his ear, he started nibbling on the lobe. Graves could still smell traces of his own cologne that Credence had put on that morning. 

The long, inviting canvas of his neck soon lured him away. It was going to have a lot more bruises, tomorrow morning. Graves would feel slightly ashamed of himself. Later. Maybe. 

"Percy, Percival," he panted. 

"Right here." Graves swiped his tongue over Credence's Adam's apple to taste the vibrations of a moan. "Just like this, Credence. Just like this." 

A shiver ran through the body underneath his. Credence's breathing stuttered, but the rest of him kept going as his seed spurted suddenly, hot and slick between them, like now he knew how it could feel, part of him never wanted to stop. 

Graves felt his own control slipping. He felt like he'd been slipping for months and now he was finally falling free. When he let go, it felt like flying.

Later, after extinguishing the lights and vanishing the worst of the mess between them, they settled in to sleep curled around each other. Credence was already drifting off, understandably tired out by all the day's unaccustomed activities. 

Graves stroked his hair back from where it fell into his closed eyes. "I love you, too," he said softly.


	12. Chapter 12

The next morning found them tangled together more closely than usual. More intimately, too, given they were both still naked. 

Credence slid a hand up Graves' back in prelude to waking. He unburied his face from Graves' chest and nudged up to kiss him good morning. In the process, he discovered that they had both woken up half-hard, a fact that Graves had been enjoying for some little while now. He waited calmly while Credence hesitated, blushed, then relaxed. 

"That's going to take some getting used to." 

"Take all the time you need." 

Graves stroked his stomach with the backs of his knuckles, careful not to tickle. As he meandered down towards Credence's erection, he asked, "Do you ever touch yourself?" 

His hand closed around its target, stroking gently. Credence hooked his fingers over Graves' shoulder, like he needed to hold on. 

"W-when I was younger, I'd wake up a mess sometimes. Ma would punish me if I couldn't get to the laundry before she saw. She always said it was perverse and sinful, and I'd go blind if I kept doing it." 

Graves couldn't quite suppress a laugh. Credence huffed but was too distracted to make more of a comment. His cock was fully hard now, and he protested when Graves let go of it to take possession of the hand on his shoulder instead. 

"You have beautiful hands." He'd always thought so. They were large, with long, strong, graceful fingers that handled his wand with marvellous precision, and Graves desperately wanted to see them take hold of something else.

Credence's fingers tried to curl over his damaged palm, but Graves pulled them gently back. He brushed kisses over the pads of his fingers, then licked his palm, asserting his own claim over both the Barebone woman's and Grindelwald's. 

Graves licked his palm again, then his wrist. He drew Credence's hand down between them. 

"Please."

" _Oh._ " 

"Please," Graves murmured into Credence's ear. "Please, Credence."

The first brush of Credence's fingers made him feel like he was vibrating. He traced around Graves' erection, tantalising. Torturous. Already close to damn well killing him.

Credence's hand had to stretch to encompass both their shafts as he found a grip and a rhythm, mimicking what Graves had done. Their cocks slid together, slicked by the fluid seeping down from the heads. Graves muffled his cries of ecstasy in Credence's throat so as not to alarm the boy by sounding like he was dying. 

He made a truly compelling sound when Graves revisited one of the marks from last night. As predicted, Credence's neck was spectacular this morning. Those bruises would probably fade in a month. They'd better, or Credence wouldn't be the only one unable to look Ollie in the face. 

Credence's touch was slow and careful. Coming, Graves felt like his orgasm was being pulled up from his toes. 

The next time they woke up, they made it as far as the shower. Graves politely offered to wash Credence's back. 

"You haven't been—I mean, all this time..." 

There were several things Credence could be asking, and the answer to most of them was yes. "Your hands are much better than my hands," Graves told him. 

"Not hardly," Credence protested, although that might have had something to do with how Graves' hands were occupied just then. 

 

The first time the Obscurus broke out after Credence kissed him, it was like a kick in the stomach. _You knew this wasn't something that could just be fixed,_ Graves reminded himself. 

He remembered the most frightened he'd been since arriving here. It had been the second or third time this had happened. The Obscurus had blown up a dust storm, and Graves hadn't known whether it would settle when Credence did, or if the fury of the storm might be too much even for the Obscurus. What if Credence lost the falcon or couldn't follow it back? Graves had waited for him, his heart in his mouth and a scarf that probably belonged to one of his sisters wrapped around his face as he squinted fruitlessly into the wind-whipped sand, concentrating with all his might on his patronus. 

Credence's reactions when he came back to himself varied. Mostly he wanted to be close, but sometimes what he needed was space. Some of it depended on what had set him off in the first place. It wasn't always one thing in particular. 

It was hard to live with, the knowledge that you carried the threat of your own death inside yourself; but Credence was strong. Still, both of them couldn't help but be aware that just because he'd come back every time so far, it didn't mean he would come back next time. 

At least it hadn't shown up during sex yet. Graves had been a little worried, that first night; but everything had worked out. He wasn't doing very well at keeping away from Credence's neck; but Credence really liked it, and Graves' ability to say no when Credence asked for things was basically non-existent. 

Credence seemed to be figuring this out, although his wants were overall simple and generally reasonable. There were times when he definitely seemed to take advantage of the situation, though. 

Today, for instance, was not one of Graves' better days. He hadn't slept well last night, the cooling charm on his hat seemed to be wearing off, and he was having trouble keeping Credence focussed on his lessons. 

This usually wasn't a problem at all. Now, however, there were distractions. At one point last week, a termite mound on the edge of their camp had started to crumble all on its own. Graves had thought one of them had hit it with a hex, but instead a pair of black and white spotted lizard hatchlings had clawed their way out. 

More had emerged over the next few days, and now the little bastards were skittering around everywhere. Credence was fascinated. Graves just wanted to keep them out of the tent. 

Credence had come back out after finishing his lunch. Graves had taken more time over his, absorbed in the book he was reading. Now, he was trying to decide if it was worth it to drag Credence back inside for the Transfiguration lesson he had planned. 

"Stop! Accio!" Credence cried. 

Graves froze on reflex and brought his hand up, quickly scanning the area for whatever had caused Credence's alarm. Something came flying out from under his foot and into Credence's hand. 

Checking his footing, he went over to where Credence was sitting in the red sand. Graves could see now that the thing he'd been about to step on was a small, dark lizard banded with white spots. 

Credence was carefully stroking the creature's head and its raised scales. It thrashed, protesting being held, and Credence relaxed his grip. 

Instead of zipping away, the lizard turned around and started climbing up his shirtsleeve. Credence looked enchanted. Graves pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel a headache coming on. 

The hatchling spent the rest of the day perched on Credence's shoulder, glaring at anything that crossed its field of vision. Graves looked at it pointedly when he was levitating the dishes onto the table. Credence was just finishing up dinner. 

"Planning on making that a permanent fixture?" Graves asked, locking eyes with the little beast, which returned him a look of asperity. 

"A familiar?" Credence visibly considered the idea. 

"You've seen how big they get," Graves warned. 

Credence rubbed the little creature's head with his finger, smiling a little. "I like it." 

Of course he did. "Yeah. I can see it's a real charmer." 

Well, and he liked Graves, too, so what did that say about his tastes? Graves contemplated this not especially flattering thought while they ate. Although some people made the mistake of confusing the care he took with his appearance with general vanity, he had precious few illusions about himself at this late date. 

Credence set the lizard on the cleared table after dinner and charmed his pen to start sketching it. It was a spell Graves had learned for recording crime scenes although, as with any magic, the caster's personality seemed to seep in. Or anyway, Credence's images always seemed to come out in a vaguely Gothic style while his own tended towards the bluntly architectural, regardless of the actual subject matter. 

Credence looked up from his note-taking. "Could you transfigure me a measuring tape?" 

Apparently, this was going to be a project. Graves decided to blame Scamander, and that he drew the line at finding the thing in his bed. 

 

Graves woke from another restless night with his arms full of Credence. It eased something in his heart. There were some nights when it was more restful to lie awake anchored by Credence's warmth and steady breathing than to risk his dreams. 

Graves bent his head to drop little kisses along Credence's neck and the curve of his shoulder, keeping them light in deference to their planned run in to Sydney in a few days' time. He ran into the collar of Credence's striped pyjamas and nuzzled under the loose fabric. 

"Good morning," Credence said, sounding mildly amused. 

"Good morning," Graves replied into the skin of his neck. He slid a hand up Credence's back under his pyjamas and scratched down his spine with neatly trimmed fingernails. 

They traded lingering kisses, stirring the sheets and discarding their pyjamas one piece at a time. All of Credence's focussed intensity came out in this. They were gentler together than Graves had been with some of his past lovers, but he'd found he didn't have to hold back. 

It would have been a doomed effort anyway. Waiting for Credence had been bad enough. He had nearly given Graves an aneurism, trying simultaneously to give everything he could and not take indiscriminately. 

Now, he was liable to stop his heart. The dark tangle of the Obscurus wasn't the only power in Credence. He had a passion that challenged Graves to meet it, weight for weight and measure for measure, and a quiet stubbornness he was learning to turn outward and not just in on himself. 

This was right. This was where he belonged, and who he belonged with. There was no doubt in Graves' mind these days. It might not have been the life he'd expected, but it was a better one than he'd imagined for himself. 

Credence combed his fingers through Graves' hair, pushing it out of his face before leaning in again. Graves licked back into his open mouth, teasing out the little surprised sounds of pleasure that meant he was doing it right. 

A murmured spell and Credence shivered over him. He sank down slowly, returning the favour. Graves curled his fingers around his hips, encouraging their circling motion. He held them snug and thrust up as Credence ground down. Together, they rocked in a slow, sensuous rhythm that seemed like it might stretch on and on forever. 

Credence was beautiful when he came. His eyes fluttered shut, and the pale morning light that seeped in through the tent walls made his skin seem to glow. But most of all, there was an expression on his face of pure, transported pleasure. That was what Graves focussed on as his own slow orgasm crested like a wave, leaving him pleasantly beached on the warm shores of afterglow. 

If they were getting a slightly later start to the day than they'd used to, Graves couldn't mind. Both of them were early risers by habit anyway, and they didn't linger in bed for long, especially since Credence didn't like being such a mess. 

After breakfast, they started brewing a Wideye potion. The returning summer heat kept them inside most days now, so they set up in the kitchen, although there were some spells you didn't want to practice inside any structure as flimsy as a tent. 

Credence was being extra careful not to make mistakes in brewing today. Graves noticed and covertly watched him for other signs. Credence's off-days weren't always triggered by anything in particular. In general, it was more useful to recognise it when it happened than to walk on eggshells all the time trying avoid the inevitable. 

He'd still rather have Credence for company than the Obscurus, so he did switch out the Charms lesson he had planned for History of Magic. Since Graves had never been especially interested in magical history, he didn't teach lessons so much as borrow books from the Antipodean Magical Library's history section in vaguely chronological order. Sometimes they discussed them, but Credence was already well on his way to knowing more about the subject than Graves did. 

At any rate, it was always a quiet way to pass a few hours. Graves could use the time to do the house-elf work, or sometimes he did reading of his own. He always grabbed a few back issues of _The Sydney Spectre_ when he went into town, and there was an international Defence periodical he'd started having delivered to Ollie's in her husband's name. 

As had become their habit in the summer months, they moved outside at dusk when it cooled down, to keep from going stir-crazy and get some fresh air. Graves had slightly altered the dimensions of his armchair by the fire pit to accommodate Credence's occasional company, but tonight they were sitting separated by the little end table between their chairs. 

The lizard hatchling Credence had adopted was basking near the small fire. Graves had started referring to it as Asperity because of the looks it gave him, and the name had stuck. He was pretty sure that Credence thought it was funny. 

Thankfully, given the rate the beast was growing, Asperity preferred outdoors to in. It would take advantage of the tent's shelter in bad weather, though, so Graves had to watch his step. There had been a brief dust storm earlier, but now the sky was clear enough that Graves was debating whether to suggest an astronomy lesson. 

Credence had brought out the tea fixings and brewed a pot entirely with magic. He took his with honey, a small indulgence that for some reason made Graves feel better about him. 

Credence wasn't dim, and children in his circumstances learned to read people very well. He knew exactly what was going on, and he'd been watching Graves watch him all day. Graves was watching him now, for the signs that he was pushing to use magic for the tea to prove he could, defying his slowly expanding limits. They both knew why. 

Usually, he didn't mind as long as Graves didn't make too big a deal out of it. He hadn't objected to the change in lesson plan. Graves waited to see whether he felt like talking about whatever was bothering him or he just wanted to ride it out. 

Credence waited until they both had their cups in hand before he said anything. When he did, it wasn't anything Graves had been expecting, although he probably should have been. 

"Will you tell me about Vivian?" he asked. 

Graves nearly dropped his tea. "Why?" 

Credence's eyes darted up to his, then back down to stare into the bottom of his tea cup like he was trying to reinvent Divination. "You keep having nightmares about how he died." 

Graves made a curt throwaway gesture. "Grindelwald dug it up. They'll go away eventually; they did last time." 

"It's been a year," Credence pointed out. 

Graves decided not to tell him how long it had taken the first time. Dreaming about Vivian was bad enough; he didn't want to revisit those memories while awake if he could help it, and the waking flashbacks had stopped almost entirely before they even reached Australia. It was ancient history. It wasn't relevant. It was more pain and ugliness, and Credence had had enough of that to last him a lifetime; Graves didn't want to expose him to any more. 

But Credence had asked. For all the more he asked of Graves, and for everything Graves asked of him, it wasn't fair to shut him down. It wasn't fair to have nightmares in bed with him and refuse to explain. 

"Fine. It was twenty years ago. I was young and rash," Graves said in a clipped tone, wishing his tea were something stronger. "We're an auror family. It's what we do. The Graveses are descended from one of the Original Twelve." 

"What's that?" Credence asked. 

All British history down here, and Scamander's appropriated books were no better. He'd have to find something better before Credence worked his way through the Middle Ages. 

"The original twelve aurors from the seventeenth century. If it's possible, Mother's family is even worse. She and father were partners until—I think she blamed herself for it when father was killed, because she was running the department and not in the field with him. Anyway, he and Drusus had had a big blowout when he decided to go into business, and they never had the chance to make it right. I was mad at Dru because I took the family's side, and I got madder afterwards because he wasn't there." Graves swallowed. 

"I got a promotion not long after, off of scut work and onto real investigation. Vivian was my new partner. He was—" Graves' eyes grew distant, momentarily losing sight of Credence and the fire pit. "It took us less than twelve hours to end up in bed together. It was like someone lit me on fire. If my brains were cooked, that would explain a lot," he added wryly, coming back to himself. 

Credence looked like he was having trouble imagining that. "He must have really been something," he managed eventually. 

Graves stared reminiscently into the twilight. "He was handsome, talented, fearless. Married." 

"Oh." 

Graves cocked a sardonic brow and continued dryly. "Oh. Yes. It wasn't an open scandal, but we weren't nearly as discreet as we should have been. Not that his wife—never mind. We carried on like that for years. The only thing that could have made me happier was having him all to myself. And then—" 

Graves could feel it like it was five minutes ago. The chase. Blood pumping. The duel, curses flying everywhere. Being hit, and the explosion, the ringing in his ears. Vivian's wand in his hand. His still-warm body in his arms. 

"Like all idiot young aurors, we thought we were invincible. We were just too good, too good together. Stupid. There was a group of Scourers; we went after them alone." 

"What are they?" 

"An old sect of renegades. They went to ground in the No-Maj population before the Revolution. I think the Barebones are descended from Scourers, actually." 

Credence blinked in surprise. 

Graves went on, his words growing terse again. "There was a fight. My wand broke. Vivian protected me. I'm still not sure what happened, but there was another explosion. It killed Vivian. He died in my arms. I grabbed his wand and blasted the only Scourer still moving into dog meat. They made me let go of him, but I wouldn't let them take his wand. _That_ was a nice little scandal for a while. His wife came damn close to clawing my eyes out over it." Graves refrained, as he had been refraining, from asking Credence what Grindelwald's wand had looked like.

He cleared his throat. "So, that's the story. After that, I grew up enough not to let anything like it happen again. I focussed on my work, and everything was fine until Grindelwald went and dredged it all up again."

Credence didn't say anything. That haunted expression suggested he was still imagining Graves clinging to his lover's bloody body while a squad of aurors tried to pry it away from him. 

It wasn't completely unlike the scene in the subway when he'd rescued Credence from Grindelwald and MACUSA. 

Graves decided he didn't want to think about it. 

A hand closed over his around the fading warmth of his tea cup. Graves looked up. Credence took the tea and set it aside on the little table. Then he sat down with his legs across Graves' lap, effectively pinning him. 

Credence cupped his face with one hand, the way Graves did for him, comforting him with his own gesture. Graves let his head be turned until he was looking into those shadowed brown eyes. 

"I'm not going anywhere," Credence told him in a surprisingly firm voice. 

"You can't promise that." 

Credence kissed him, and his kiss was even more serious than his tone. 

"Nothing is going to happen to me. I happen to people now, not the other way around. I'm a twenty-five-year-old Obscurial, and I'll be a hundred twenty-five before I'm through. I haven't come this far to fall apart now." 

Credence stroked his neck, staring hard at him like he could imprint his own certainty directly into Graves' mind. 

"Do you remember what you told me when we first came here?" 

Graves settled his hands around Credence's waist. "I told you that as long as you came back to me, I'd be here."

"And as long as you're here, I'll come back," Credence promised. 

He kissed Graves again, deep and sweet. Graves closed his eyes on the world and let himself believe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! 
> 
> There may be a sequel. It may or may not come into being before the next movie. But, I've become unexpectedly invested in this fandom, so I do have something else in the works. 
> 
> Follow me here for updates, or follow me on tumblr @[conditionalriverofabsolutelove](http://conditionalriverofabsolutelove.tumblr.com/) for updates plus ridiculous cat pictures.


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